LOCAL  COLOR 


IRVIN    S.  COBB 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LOCAL  COLOR 


BY   IRVIN    S.  COBB 


FICTION 

LOCAL  COLOR 

FIBBLE,  D.D. 

OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 

BACK  HOME 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  MR.  TRIMM 

WIT  AND  HUMOR 

"SPEAKING  OF  OPERATIONS — 
EUROPE  REVISED 
ROUGHING  IT  DE  LUXE 
COBB'S  BILL  OF  FARE 
COBB'S  ANATOMY 

MISCELLANY 

PATHS  OF  GLORY 


GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


LOCAL  COLOE 


BY 

IRVIN  S.  COBB 

AUTHOR  OF  "BACK  HOME,"  "PATHS  OF  GLORY,' 
ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 

COPYRIGHT,  1914,   1915  AND  1916, 
BY  THE   CURTIS   PUBJJSHIJs'G    COMPANY 


5 Jo 


TO  MY  SISTEBS 


C'\<y 


CONTENTS 


CHAFTEB  rA.au 

I    LOCAL  COLOR 11 

II    FIELD  OF  HONOR  .       . 47 

III  THE  SMART  ALECK 91 

IV  BLACKER  THAN  SIN 129 

V    THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 159 

VI    THE  GREAT  AUK 204 

VII  FIRST  CORINTHIANS:   CHAP.  XIII,  V.  4    .       .       .246 

VIII    ENTER  THE  VILLAIN SOS 

IX    PERSONA  AU  GRATIN 868 

X  SMOOTH  CROSSING  .                                   ...  408 


[vii] 


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Avocyfi 


•    •    •  m 


.  x>* 


CHAPTER  I 
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FELIX  LOOMS,  the  well-known  author, 
disappeared — or,  rather,  he  went  away 
— on  or  about  June  fifteenth,  four 
years  ago.  He  told  his  friends,  his  land 
lady  and  his  publisher — he  had  no  immediate 
family — he  felt  run  down  and  debilitated  and 
he  meant  to  go  away  for  a  good  long  stay.  He 
might  try  the  Orient;  then  again  perhaps  he 
would  go  to  the  South  Seas.  When  he  came 
back,  which  might  be  in  a  year  or  two  years  or 
even  three,  he  expected  to  bring  with  him  the 
material  for  a  longer  and  better  book  than  any 
he  had  written.  Meantime  he  wanted  to  cut 
loose,  as  he  put  it,  from  everything.  He  in 
tended,  he  said,  to  write  no  letters  while  he  was 
gone  and  he  expected  to  receive  none. 

He  gave  a  power  of  attorney  to  a  lawyer  with 
whom  he  had  occasional  dealings,  left  in  bank  a 
modest  balance  to  meet  any  small  forgotten 
bills  that  might  turn  up  after  his  departure, 
surrendered  his  bachelor  apartments  in  the 

[11] 


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Rubens  Studio  Building,  paid  off  his  house 
keeper,  said  good-bye  to  a  few  persons,  wrote 
explanatory  notes  to  a  few.  more;  and  then 
quietly — as  he  did  everything  in  this  life — he 
vanished. 

Nobody  particularly  missed  him,  for  he  was 
not  a  famous  author  or  even  a  popular  one;  he 
was  merely  well  known  as  a  writer  of  tales 
dealing  in  the  main  with  crime  and  criminals 
and  criminology.  People  that  liked  his  writ 
ings  said  he  was  a  realist,  who  gave  promise  of 
bigger  things.  People  that  did  not  like  his 
writings  said  he  was  a  half-baked  socialist. 
One  somewhat  overcritical  reviewer,  who  had  a 
bad  liver  and  a  bitter  pen,  once  compared  him 
to  an  ambitious  but  immature  hen  pullet,  laying 
many  eggs  but  all  soft-shelled  and  all  of  them 
deficient  in  yolk. 

Personally  Felix  Looms  was  a  short,  slender, 
dark  man,  approaching  forty,  who  wore  thick 
glasses  and  coats  that  invariably  were  too  long 
in  the  sleeves.  In  company  he  was  self-effacing; 
in  a  crowd  he  was  entirely  lost,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean.  He  did  not  know  many  people  and 
was  intimate  with  none  of  those  he  did  know. 
Quite  naturally  his  departure  for  parts  unknown 
left  his  own  little  literary  puddle  unrippled. 

Looms  went  away  and  he  did  not  come  back. 
His  publisher  never  heard  from  him  again;  nor 
did  his  lawyer  nor  the  manager  of  the  ware 
house  where  he  had  stored  his  heavier  belongings. 
When  three  years  had  passed,  and  still  no  word 
[12] 


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came  from  him,  his  acquaintances  thought — 
such  of  them  as  gave  him  a  thought — that  he 
must  have  died  somewhere  out  in  one  of  the 
back  corners  of  the  East.  He  did  die  too;  but 
it  was  not  in  the  East.  He  died  within  a  block 
and  a  half  of  the  club  of  his  lawyer  and  not  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  town  house  of 
his  publisher.  However,  that  detail,  which  is 
inconsequential,  will  come  up  later. 

At  about  seven-forty-five  on  the  evening  of 
June  seventeenth,  four  years  ago,  Patrolman 
Matthew  Clabby  was  on  duty — fixed  post  duty 
— at  the  corner  of  Thirty-fourth  Street  and 
Second  Avenue.  According  to  the  report  made 
by  him  at  the  time  to  his  immediate  superior 
and  subsequently  repeated  by  him  under  oath 
before  the  grand  jury  and  still  later  at  the  trial, 
his  attention  was  attracted — to  use  the  com 
mon  formula — by  a  disturbance  occurring  on  a 
crosstown  trolley  car,  eastward  bound,  which 
had  halted  just  west  of  the  corner. 

Patrolman  Clabby  boarded  the  car  to  find 
a  small,  shabby  man  endeavouring  to  break 
away  from  a  larger  and  better-dressed  man, 
who  held  him  fast  by  the  collar.  In  reply  to 
the  officer's  questions  the  large  man  stated 
that  he  had  detected  the  small  one  in  the  act 
of  picking  his  pocket.  He  had  waited,  he  said, 
until  the  other  lifted  his  watch  and  chain  and 
then  had  seized  him  and  held  him  fast  and 
called  for  help.  At  least  three  citizens,  passen- 
gers  on  the  car,  confirmed  the  main  points  of  the 


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accuser's  story.  For  added  proof  there  were 
the  watch  and  chain.  They  were  in  the  thief's 
side  coat  pocket.  With  his  own  large  firm 
hands  Patrolman  Clabby  fished  them  out  from 
there  and  confiscated  them  for  purposes  of  evi 
dence.  As  for  the  prisoner,  he  said  nothing  at 
all. 

The  policeman  totted  down  in  his  little  book 
the  names  and  addresses  of  the  eyewitnesses. 
This  done,  he  took  the  small  man  and  led  him 
off  afoot  to  the  East  Thirty-fifth  Street  Station, 
the  owner  of  the  watch  going  along  to  make  a 
formal  charge.  Before  the  desk  in  the  station 
house  this  latter  person  said  he  was  named 
Hartigan — Charles  Edward  Hartigan,  a  private 
detective  by  occupation;  and  he  repeated  his 
account  of  the  robbery,  with  amplifications. 
The  pickpocket  gave  his  name  as  James  Wil 
liams  and  his  age  as  thirty-eight,  but  declined 
to  tell  where  he  lived,  what  occupation  he  fol 
lowed,  or  what  excuse  he  had  for  angling  after 
other  people's  personal  property  on  a  crosstown 
car. 

At  this  juncture  Clabby  grabbed  one  of  his 
prisoner's  hands  and  ran  a  finger  over  its  inner 
surface,  seeking  for  callosities  of  the  palm;  then 
he  nodded  meaningly  to  the  desk  lieutenant. 

"I  guess  he's  a  dip  all  right,  Loot,"  said 
Clabby;  "the  inside  of  his  hand  is  as  soft  as  a 
baby's." 

"Take  him  back!"  said  the  lieutenant  briefly. 

Before  obeying,  Clabby  faced  the  man  about 
[14] 


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and  searched  him,  the  search  revealing  a  small 
amount  of  money  but  no  objects  that  might 
serve  for  the  prisoner's  better  identification. 
So,  handling  James  Williams  as  casually  and 
impersonally  as  though  he  were  merely  a  rather 
unwieldy  parcel,  Clabby  propelled  him  rear 
ward  along  a  passageway  and  turned  him  over 
to  a  turnkey,  who  turned  him  into  a  cell  and  left 
him  there — though  not  very  long.  Within  an 
hour  he  was  taken  in  a  patrol  wagon  to  the 
night  court,  sitting  at  Jefferson  Market,  where 
an  irritable  magistrate  held  him,  on  the  strength 
of  a  short  affidavit  by  Clabby,  to  await  the 
action  of  the  grand  jury. 

Thereafter  for  a  period  James  Williams,  so 
far  as  the  processes  of  justice  were  concerned, 
ceased  to  be  a  regular  human  being  and  became 
a  small  and  inconspicuous  grain  in  the  whirring 
hopper  of  the  law.  He  was  as  one  pepper-corn 
in  a  crowded  bin — one  atom  among  a  multitude 
of  similar  atoms.  Yet  the  law  from  time  to 
time  took  due  cognisance  of  this  mote's  ex 
istence. 

For  example,  on  the  morning  of  the  eighteenth 
a  closed  van  conveyed  him  to  the  Tombs.  For 
further  example,  an  assistant  district  attorney, 
in  about  a  month,  introduced  Clabby  and  Harti- 
gan  before  the  July  grand  jury.  It  took  the 
grand  jury  something  less  than  five  minutes 
to  vote  an  indictment  charging  James  Williams 
with  grand  larceny;  and  ten  days  later  it  took 
a  judge  of  General  Sessions  something  less  than 

[15] 


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three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  try  the  said 
Williams. 

The  proceedings  in  this  regard  were  entirely 
perfunctory.  The  defendant  at  the  bar  had  no 
attorney.  Accordingly  the  judge  assigned  to 
the  task  of  representing  him  a  fledgling  gradu 
ate  of  the  law  school.  Hartigan  testified; 
Clabby  testified;  two  eyewitnesses,  a  brick 
layer  and  a  bookkeeper,  testified — all  for  the 
state.  The  prisoner  could  produce  no  witnesses 
in  his  own  behalf  and  he  declined  to  take  the 
stand  himself,  which  considerably  simplified 
matters. 

Red  and  stuttering  with  stage  fright,  the 
downy  young  law-school  graduate  make  a  brief 
plea  for  his  client  on  the  ground  that  no  proof 
had  been  offered  to  show  his  client  had  a  pre 
vious  criminal  record.  Perfunctorily  the  young 
assistant  district  attorney  summed  up.  In  a 
perfunctory  way  the  judge  charged  the  jury; 
and  the  jury  filed  out,  and — presumably  hi  a 
perfunctory  fashion  also — took  a  ballot  and 
were  back  in  less  than  no  time  at  all  with  a 
verdict  of  guilty. 

James  Williams,  being  ordered  to  stand  up, 
stood  up;  being  ordered  to  furnish  his  pedigree 
for  the  record,  he  refused  to  do  so;  being  re 
garded,  therefore,  as  a  person  who  undoubtedly 
had  a  great  deal  to  conceal,  he  was  denied  the 
measure  of  mercy  that  frequently  is  bestowed 
on  first  offenders.  His  Honour  gave  him  an 
indeterminate  sentence  of  not  less  than  three 

[16] 


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years  at  hard  labour  in  state  prison,  and  one 
of  the  evening  newspapers  gave  him  three  lines 
in  the  appropriate  ratio  of  one  line  for  each 
year.  In  three  days  more  James  Williams  was 
at  Sing  Sing,  wearing  among  other  things  a 
plain  grey  suit,  a  close  hair-cut  and  a  number, 
learning  how  to  make  shoes. 

Now  then,  the  task  for  me  is  to  go  back  and 
begin  this  story  where  properly  it  should  begin. 
Felix  Looms,  the  well-known  writer  who  went 
away  on  or  about  June  fifteenth,  and  James 
Williams,  who  went  to  jail  June  seventeenth 
for  picking  a  pocket,  were  one  and  the  same 
person;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  nearer  the  truth 
to  say  that  James  Williams  was  Felix  Looms. 

Lest  my  meaning  be  misunderstood  let  me 
add  that  this  is  no  tale  of  a  reversion  to  type. 
It  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  any  sud 
denly  awakened  hereditary  impulse.  In  the 
blend  of  Felix  Looms'  breed  no  criminal  strain 
persisted.  His  father  was  a  Congregational 
preacher  from  Massachusetts  and  his  mother  a 
district  school-teacher  from  Northern  New 
York.  His  grandsires,  on  both  sides,  were 
good,  clean-strain  American  stock.  So  far  as 
we  know,  never  a  bad  skeleton  had  rattled  its 
bones  in  his  family's  closet.  He  himself  was  a 
product  of  strict  training  in  a  Christian  home, 
a  Yale  education  and  much  book  reading.  The 
transition  from  Felix  Looms,  bookworm,  author 
and  sociologist,  to  James  Williams,  common 
[17] 


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rogue  and  convict,  was  accomplished  deliber 
ately,  and,  as  it  were,  with  malice  aforethought. 

Here  was  how  the  thing  came  about.  Se 
cretly,  through  a  period  of  years,  Felix  Looms 
had  nursed  an  ambition  to  write  a  great  novel 
of  prison  life.  It  is  true  he  had  written  a  num 
ber  of  short  stories  and  at  least  one  novelette 
dealing  with  prison  life,  and,  what  was  more  to 
the  point,  had  sold  them  after  writing  them; 
but  they  lacked  sincerity.  There  was  neither 
sureness  nor  assurance  about  them.  He  felt 
this  lack;  his  publishers  felt  it;  and  in  a  way 
his  readers  no  doubt  felt  it  too,  without  knowing 
exactly  why  they  felt  it. 

It  is  one  of  the  inexplicable  mysteries  of  the 
trade  of  writing  that  no  man,  however  well  he 
handles  the  tools  of  that  trade,  can  write  con 
vincingly  of  things  about  which  he  personally 
does  not  know.  A  man  might  aspire,  let  us  say, 
to  write  a  story  with  scenes  laid  in  Northern 
Africa.  In  preparation  for  this  task  he  might 
read  a  hundred  volumes  about  Northern  Africa, 
its  soil,  its  climate,  its  natives,  its  characteris 
tics.  He  might  fairly  saturate  himself  in  liter 
ature  pertaining  to  Northern  Africa;  then  sit 
him  down  and  write  his  story.  Concede  him 
to  be  a  good  craftsman;  concede  that  the  story 
was  well  done;  that  his  descriptions  were 
strong,  his  phrasing  graphic,  his  technic  correct 
— nevertheless,  it  would  lack  that  quality  they 
call  plausibility.  Somehow  the  reader  would 
sense  that  this  man  had  never  seen  Northern 

[18] 


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Africa  with  his  own  eyes  or  breathed  its  air 
with  his  own  nostrils. 

To  this  rule  there  are  two  exceptions:  A 
writer  may  write  of  things  that  happened  in  a 
past  generation,  after  the  last  man  of  that  gen 
eration  is  dead — therefore  historical  novelists 
are  common;  or,  provided  his  imagination  be 
sufficiently  plastic,  he  may  write  of  things  that 
are  supposed  to  happen  in  the  future — he  may 
even  describe  the  inhabitants  of  the  planet 
Mars  and  their  scheme  of  existence.  None  will 
gainsay  him,  seeing  that  no  contemporary  of 
his  has  been  to  Mars  or  knows  more  of  the  con 
ditions  that  will  prevail  a  year  or  a  century 
hence  than  he  knows.  But  where  he  deals  with 
the  actualities  of  his  own  day  and  time  he  must 
know  those  actualities  at  first  hand,  else  his 
best  efforts  fall  to  the  ground  and  are  of  no 
avail.  He  simply  cannot  get  away  with  it. 
Hearsay  evidence  always  was  poor  evidence. 

Felix  Looms  knew  this.  In  his  own  case  he 
knew  it  better  than  his  readers  knew  it — or  even 
his  publisher.  Critical  analysis  of  his  work  had 
revealed  its  flaws  to  him  until  in  his  own  soul 
he  was  ashamed  and  humiliated,  feeling  him 
self  to  be  a  counterfeiter  uttering  a  most  spuri 
ous  coinage.  So  one  day  he  said  to  himself: 

"The  worst  thing  in  our  modern  civilisation 
is  a  prison.  It  is  wrong  and  we  know  it  is 
wrong;  and  yet  we  have  devised  nothing  to 
take  its  place.  A  prison  is  crime's  chemical 
laboratory;  it  is  a  great  retort  where  virulent 

[19] 


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poisons  are  distilled.  Civilisation  maintains  it 
in  the  hope  of  checking  certain  gross  evils;  yet 
in  it  and  by  it  evils  as  great  are  born  and 
fostered.  And  the  truth  about  it  has  never 
been  told  in  the  form  of  fiction,  which  is  the 
most  convincing  form  of  telling  the  truth. 
Always  the  trouble  has  been  that  the  people 
who  have  been  hi  prison  could  not  write  about 
it  and  the  people  who  could  write  about  it  have 
not  been  in  prison. 

"I  know  I  could  write  about  it,  and  so  I  am 
going  to  prison.  I  shall  go  to  prison  for  one 
year,  perhaps  two  or  possibly  three  years;  and 
when  I  come  out  I  shall  write  a  novel  about 
prison  life  that  will  make  my  name  live  after 
me,  for  I  shall  know  my  facts  at  first  hand — I 
shall  have  the  local  colour  of  a  prison  in  my 
grip  as  no  other  man  has  ever  had  it  who  had 
my  powers  as  a  writer.  I  am  going  to  gamble 
with  this  thing — the  prison.  I  will  give  it  a 
slice  out  of  my  life  for  the  sake  of  the  great 
work  I  shall  do  afterward." 

Mind  you,  I  am  not  saying  he  put  his  big 
idea — for  surely  it  was  an  idea  and  a  big  one — 
in  exactly  those  words;  but  that  was  his 
thought.  And  when  he  came  to  work  out  the 
plan  he  was  astonished  to  find  how  easy  it  was 
to  devise  and  to  accomplish.  Thanks  to  his 
mode  of  life,  his  practical  isolation  in  the  midst 
of  five  million  other  beings,  he  needed  to  con 
fide  in  but  one  person;  and  in  Hartigan  he 
found  that  person.  Hartigan,  a  veteran  of  the 

[20] 


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detective  business,  who  knew  and  kept  almost 
as  many  intimate  secrets  as  a  father  confessor, 
showed  surprise  just  twice — first  when  Looms 
confided  to  him  his  purpose  and  again  when  he 
learned  how  generously  Looms  was  willing  to 
pay  for  his  co-operation. 

Besides,  as  Looms  at  their  first  meeting 
pointed  out  and  as  Hartigan  saw  for  himself, 
there  was  no  obligation  upon  him  to  do  anything 
that  was  actually  wrong.  Aboard  that  cross- 
town  car  Looms  did  really  take  a  watch  from 
Hartigan's  pocket.  Whatever  the  motive  be 
hind  the  act,  the  act  spoke  for  itself.  All  that 
Hartigan  told  under  oath  on  the  witness  stand 
was  straight  enough.  It  was  what  he  did  not 
tell  that  mortised  the  fabric  of  their  plot  to 
gether  and  made  the  thing  dovetail,  whole 
truth  with  half  truth. 

At  the  very  worst  they  had  merely  conspired 
— he  as  accessory  and  Looms  as  principal — to 
cheat  the  state  of  New  York  out  of  sundry  years 
of  free  board  and  freedomless  lodgings  at  an 
establishment  wherein  probably  no  other  man 
since  it  was  built  had  ever  schemed  of  his  own 
free  will  to  abide. 

So  Hartigan,  the  private  detective,  having 
first  got  his  fee,  eventually  got  his  watch  back 
and  now  disappears  from  this  narrative.  So 
Felix  Looms,  the  seeker  after  local  colour,  gave 
up  his  bachelor  apartments  in  the  Rubens 
Studio  Building  and  went  away,  leaving  no  for- 
warding  address  behind  him.  So  James  Wil- 

[21] 


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liams,  the  petty  felon,  with  no  known  address 
except  the  size  number  in  his  hat,  went  up  the 
river  to  serve  an  indeterminate  sentence  of  not 
less  than  three  years. 

From  the  hour  he  entered  the  Tombs  on  that 
morning  of  the  eighteenth  of  June,  Felix  Looms 
began  to  store  up  material  against  the  day  when 
he  should  transmute  it  into  the  written  word. 
Speaking  exactly,  he  began  storing  it  up  even 
sooner  than  that.  The  thrill  and  excitement  of 
the  arrest,  the  arraignment  before  the  cross 
magistrate  in  the  night  court,  the  night  in  the 
station-house  cell — all  these  things  provided 
him  with  startlingly  new  and  tremendously  vivid 
sensations.  Indeed,  at  the  moment  his  probing 
fingers  closed  on  Hartigan's  watch  the  mind 
pictures  began  to  form  and  multiply  inside  his 
head. 

Naturally,  the  Tombs  had  been  most  prolific 
of  impressions;  the  local  colour  fairly  swarmed 
and  spawned  there.  He  had  visited  the  Tombs 
once  before  in  his  life,  but  he  knew  now  that 
he  had  not  seen  it  then.  Behind  a  mask  of 
bars  and  bolts  it  had  hidden  its  real  organism 
from  him  who  had  come  in  the  capacity  of  a 
sightseer;  but  now,  as  an  inmate,  guarded  and 
watched  and  tended  in  his  cell  like  a  wild  beast 
in  a  show,  he  got  under  the  skin  of  it.  With 
the  air  he  breathed — and  it  was  most  remark 
ably  bad  air — he  took  in  and  absorbed  the 

flavour  of  the  place. 

[22] 


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He  sensed  it  all — the  sordid  small  intrigues; 
the  playing  of  favourites  by  the  turnkeys;  the 
smuggling;  the  noises;  the  smells;  the  gossip 
that  ran  from  tier  to  tier;  the  efforts  of  each 
man  confined  there  to  beat  the  law,  against 
which  each  of  them  presumably  had  offended. 
It  was  as  though  he  could  see  a  small  stream  of 
mingled  hope  and  fear  pouring  from  beneath 
the  patterned  grill  of  each  cell  door  to  unite  in 
a  great  flood  that  roared  unendingly  off  and 
away  to  the  courts  beyond. 

Mentally  Felix  Looms  sought  to  put  himself 
in  the  attitude  of  the  men  and  women  about 
him — these  bona  fide  thieves  and  murderers 
and  swindlers  and  bigamists  who  through  every 
waking  hour  plotted  and  planned  for  freedom. 
That  was  the  hardest  part  of  his  job.  He  could 
sense  how  they  felt  without  personally  being 
able  to  feel  what  they  felt.  As  yet  he  took  no 
notes,  knowing  that  when  he  reached  Sing  Sing 
he  would  be  stripped  skin-bare  and  searched; 
but  his  brain  was  like  a  classified  card  index,  in 
which  he  stored  and  filed  a  thousand  and  one 
thoughts.  Hourly  he  gave  thanks  for  a  system 
atic  and  tenacious  memory.  And  so  day  by 
day  his  copy  and  his  local  colour  accumulated 
and  the  first  chapters  of  his  novel  took  on  shape 
and  substance  in  his  mind. 

Lying  on  the  hard  bed  in  his  cell  he  felt  the 

creative  impulse  stirring  him,  quickening  his 

imagination  until  all  his  senses  fairly  throbbed 

to  its  big,  deep  harmonies.     The  present  dis- 

[23] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

comforts  of  his  position,  the  greater  discomforts 
that  surely  awaited  him,  filmed  away  to  noth 
ingness  hi  the  vision  of  the  great  thing  he  meant 
to  accomplish.  He  told  himself  he  was  merely 
about  to  barter  a  bit  out  of  his  life  for  that  for 
which  a  writer  lives — the  fame  that  endures; 
and  he  counted  it  a  good  bargain  and  an  easy 
one. 

In  the  period  between  his  arrest  and  his  con 
viction  Felix  Looms  had  one  fear,  and  one  only 
—that  at  his  trial  he  might  be  recognised.  He 
allowed  his  beard  to  grow,  and  on  the  day  the 
summons  came  for  him  to  go  to  court  he  laid 
aside  his  glasses.  As  it  happened,  no  person 
was  at  the  trial  who  knew  him;  though  had 
such  a  person  been  there  it  is  highly  probable 
that  he  would  not  have  recognised  Felix  Looms, 
the  smugly  dressed,  spectacled,  close-shaved 
man  of  letters,  in  this  shabby,  squinting,  whis 
kered  malefactor  who  had  picked  a  citizen's 
pocket  before  the  eyes  of  other  citizens. 

With  him  to  Sing  Sing  for  confinement  went 
four  others — a  Chinese  Tong  fighter  bound  for 
the  death  house  and  the  death  chair;  an  Italian 
wife-murderer  under  a  life  sentence;  a  young 
German  convicted  of  forgery;  and  a  negro  loft 
robber — five  felons  all  told,  with  deputies  to 
herd  them.  Except  the  negro,  Looms  was  the 
only  native-born  man  of  the  five.  The  China 
man,  an  inoffensive-looking  little  saffron-hided 
man,  was  manacled  between  two  deputies. 
Seeing  that  the  state  would  presently  be  at 


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some  pains  to  kill  him,  the  state  meantime  was 
taking  the  very  best  of  care  of  him.  The  re 
maining  four  were  hitched  in  pairs,  right  wrist 
of  one  to  left  wrist  of  the  other.  A  deputy 
marched  with  each  coupled  pair  and  a  deputy 
marched  behind.  Looms'  fetter-mate  was  the 
Italian,  who  knew  no  English — or,  at  least, 
spoke  none  during  the  journey. 

A  prison  van  carried  them  from  the  Tombs 
to  the  Grand  Central  Station.  It  was  barred 
and  boarded  like  a  circus  cage — the  van  was — 
and  like  a  circus  cage  it  had  small  grated  vents 
at  each  end,  high  up.  A  local  train  carried 
them  from  the  station  to  Sing  Sing.  From 
start  to  finish,  including  the  van  ride,  the  jour 
ney  took  a  little  less  than  three  hours.  Three 
hours  to  get  there,  and  three  years  to  get  back ! 
Felix  Looms  made  a  mental  note  of  this  circum 
stance  as  he  sat  in  his  seat  next  the  car  window, 
with  the  wife-murderer  beside  him.  He  liked 
the  line.  It  would  make  a  good  chapter 
heading. 

The  town  of  Ossining,  where  Sing  Sing  is,  is  a 
hilly  town,  the  railroad  station  being  at  the  foot 
of  a  hill,  with  the  town  mounting  up  uneven 
terraces  on  one  side  and  the  prison  squatting 
flat  on  the  river  bank  on  the  other.  Arriving 
at  Ossining,  special  and  distinguishing  honours 
were  paid  to  the  little  yellow  Chinaman.  In  a 
ramshackle  village  hack,  with  his  two  guards, 
he  rode  up  a  winding  street,  across  a  bridge 
spanning  the  railroad  tracks,  and  then  along  a 
[25] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


ridge  commanding  a  view  of  the  Hudson  to  the 
prison. 

The  four  lesser  criminals  followed  the  same 
route,  but  afoot.  They  scuffled  along  through 
the  dust  their  feet  kicked  up,  and  before  their 
walk  was  done  grew  very  sweaty  and  hot.  The 
townspeople  they  met  barely  turned  their  heads 
to  watch  the  little  procession  as  it  passed;  for 
to  them  this  was  an  every-day  occurrence — as 
common  a  sight  as  a  bread  wagon  or  a  postman. 

It  was  not  a  long  walk  for  the  four.  Quite 
soon  they  came  to  their  destination.  An  iron 
door  opened  for  them  and  in  they  went,  two  by 
two.  Felix  Looms  saw  how  the  German  forger, 
who  was  ahead  of  him,  flinched  up  against  the 
negro  as  the  door  crashed  behind  them;  but 
to  Looms  the  sound  the  door  made  was  a  wel 
come  sound.  Secretly  a  high  exaltation  pos 
sessed  him. 

For  a  fact,  this  man  who  meant  to  learn  about 
prison  life  at  first  hand  went  to  the  right  place 
when  he  went  to  Sing  Sing;  for  Sing  Sing,  the 
main  part  of  it,  was  built  in  1825-28,  nearly  a 
hundred  years  ago,  when  the  punishment  of 
imprisonment  meant  the  punishment  of  soul 
and  body  and  mind.  In  1825  the  man  who  for 
his  misdeeds  forfeited  his  liberty  and  his  civil 
rights  forfeited  also  the  right  to  be  considered 
in  any  wise  a  human  being.  As  an  animal  he 
was  regarded  and  as  an  animal  he  was  treated, 
and  as  an  animal  he  became.  The  institution 
[26] 


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made  a  beast  not  only  of  him  but  of  the  man 
who  was  set  to  keep  him.  Also,  in  such  by 
products  as  disease  and  degeneracy  the  plant 
was  especially  prolific. 

The  cell  house,  the  dominating  structure 
within  the  prison  close,  must  look  to-day  very 
much  as  it  looked  along  toward  the  end  of  the 
third  decade  of  last  century.  Straight-walled, 
angular,  homely  beyond  conception,  it  rises 
high  above  the  stone  stockade  that  surrounds 
it.  Once  its  interior  was  lighted  and  aired 
only  by  narrow  windows.  You  could  hardly 
call  them  windows — they  were  like  slits;  they 
were  like  seams.  About  twenty  years  ago  large 
inlets  were  cut  into  the  walls.  These  inlets 
admit  much  air  and  some  light. 

As  the  cell  house  is  the  core  of  Sing  Sing,  so 
the  cell  structure  is  its  core.  In  the  exact  cen 
tre  of  the  building,  steel  within  stone,  six  levels 
of  cells  rise,  one  level  on  another,  climbing 
up  almost  to  the  roof,  from  which  many  hooded, 
round  ventilators  stare  down  like  watchful  eyes 
that  never  sleep.  In  each  tier  are  two  hundred 
cells,  built  back  to  back,  each  row  of  cells  being 
faced  by  narrow  iron  balconies  and  reached  by 
narrow  wooden  stairways.  The  person  who 
climbs  one  of  those  flights  of  stairs  and  walks 
along  one  of  those  balconies  passes  a  succession 
of  flat-banded,  narrow  iron  doors.  Each  door 
has  set  into  it  an  iron  grill  so  closely  barred 
that  the  spaces  between  the  patterns  are  no 
larger  than  the  squares  of  a  checkerboard. 
[27] 


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Not  a  single  cell  has  a  window  in  it.'  Even 
at  high  noon  the  interior  is  wrapped  in  a  sourish, 
ill-savoured  gloom  as  though  the  good  daylight 
had  addled  and  turned  sour  as  soon  as  it  got 
inside  this  place.  The  lowermost  cells  are 
always  damp.  Moisture  forms  on  the  walls, 
sweating  through  the  pores  of  the  stone  like  an 
exhalation,  so  that,  with  his  finger  for  a  pen,  a 
man  may  write  his  name  in  the  trickling  ooze. 

A  cell  measures  in  width  three  feet  four 
inches;  in  length,  six  feet  six  inches;  in  height, 
seven  feet  and  no  mches.  It  has  a  cubic  ca 
pacity  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet, 
which  is  considerably  less  than  half  the  cubic 
space  provided  by  our  Government  for  each 
individual  in  army  barracks  in  time  of  war. 
It  contains  for  furniture  a  bunk,  which  folds 
back  against  the  wall  when  not  in  use,  or  two 
bunks,  swung  one  above  the  other;  sometimes 
a  chair;  sometimes  a  stool;  sometimes  a  shelf, 
and  always  a  bucket. 

For  further  details  of  the  sanitary  arrange 
ments  see  occasional  grand-jury  reports  and 
semioccasional  reports  by  special  investigating 
committees.  These  bodies  investigate  and  then 
report;  and  their  reports  are  received  by  the 
proper  authorities  and  printed  in  the  news 
papers.  Coincidentally  the  newspapers  com 
ment  bitterly  on  the  conditions  existing  at  Sing 
Sing  and  call  on  public  opinion  to  rouse  itself. 
Public  opinion  remaining  unroused,  the  sani- 

tary  arrangements  remain  unchanged. 

[28] 


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The  man  who  occupies  the  cell  is  wakened 
at  six-thirty  A.  M.  At  seven-thirty  he  is 
marched  to  the  mess  hall,  where  he  eats  his 
breakfast.  By  eight  o'clock  he  is  supposed 
to  be  at  work  somewhere,  either  in  the  work 
shop  or  on  a  special  detail.  At  noon  he  goes  to 
the  mess  hall  again.  He  is  given  half  an  hour 
in  which  to  eat  his  dinner.  For  that  dinner 
half  an  hour  is  ample.  At  twelve-thirty  he  re 
turns  to  his  task,  whatever  it  is.  He  works 
until  quarter  past  three. 

He  gets  a  little  exercise  then,  and  at  four  he 
is  marched  to  his  cell.  On  his  way  he  passes  a 
table  piled  with  dry  bread  cut  in  large  slices. 
He  takes  as  much  bread  as  he  wants.  Hanging 
to  his  cell  door  is  a  tin  cup,  which  a  guard  has 
just  filled  with  a  hottish  coloured  fluid  denomi 
nated  tea.  Being  put  into  his  cell  and  locked  in, 
he  eats  his  bread  and  drinks  his  tea;  that  is  his 
supper.  He  stays  in  his  cell  until  between  six- 
thirty  and  seven-thirty  the  following  morning. 

He  knows  Sundays  only  to  hate  them.  On 
Sunday  he  is  let  out  of  his  cell  for  breakfast, 
then  goes  to  religious  services,  if  he  so  desires, 
and  at  eleven  o'clock  is  returned  to  his  cell  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day,  with  his  rations  for 
the  day.  When  a  legal  holiday  falls  on  Monday 
he  stays  in  his  cell  from  four  o'clock  on  Saturday 
until  six-thirty  Tuesday  morning,  except  for  the 
time  spent  at  certain  meals  and  at  divine 
services. 

This  is  his  daily  routine.  From  the  mo- 
[29] 


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notony  of  it  there  is  one  relief.  Should  he  per 
sistently  misbehave  he  is  sent  to  a  dark  cell, 
from  which  he  emerges  half  blind  and  half  mad, 
or  quite  blind  and  all  mad,  depending  on  the 
length  of  time  of  his  confinement  therein. 

This,  in  brief,  is  Sing  Sing;  or  at  least  it  is 
Sing  Sing  as  Sing  Sing  was  when  Felix  Looms 
went  there.  Wardens  have  been  changed  since 
then  and  with  wardens  the  system  is  sometimes 
altered.  Physically,  though,  Sing  Sing  must 
always  remain  the  same.  No  warden  can 
change  that. 

Had  he  let  it  be  known  that  he  was  a  man  of 
clerkly  ways  and  book  learning,  Felix  Looms 
might  have  been  set  to  work  in  the  prison  office, 
keeping  accounts  or  filing  correspondence;  but 
that  was  not  his  plan.  So,  maintaining  his 
rdle  of  unskilled  labourer,  he  was  sent  to  the 
shoe  shop  to  learn  to  make  shoes;  and  in  time, 
after  a  fashion,  he  did  learn  to  make  shoes. 

He  attracted  no  special  attention  in  the 
shameful  community  of  which  he  had  become 
a  small  and  inconsequential  member.  His  had 
been  a  colourless  and  unobtrusive  personality 
outside  the  prison;  inside  he  was  still  colourless 
and  unobtrusive.  He  obeyed  the  rules;  he  ate 
of  the  coarse  fare,  which  satisfied  his  stomach 
but  killed  his  palate;  he  developed  indigestion 
and  a  small  cough;  he  fought  the  graybacks 
that  swarmed  in  his  cell  and  sought  to  nibble 
on  his  body.  By  day  he  watched,  he  learned, 
[30] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


he  studied,  he  analysed,  he  planned  and  platted 
out  his  book;  and  at  night  he  slept,  or  tried  to 
sleep. 

At  first  he  slept  poorly.  Bit  by  bit  he  accus 
tomed  himself  to  the  bad  air;  to  the  pent  close 
ness  of  his  cell;  to  the  feeling  in  the  darkness 
that  the  walls  were  closing  in  on  him  to  squeeze 
him  to  death — a  feeling  that  beset  him  for  the 
first  few  weeks;  to  the  noises,  the  coughing, 
the  groaning,  the  choking,  which  came  from  all 
about  him;  to  the  padding  tread  of  the  guards 
passing  at  intervals  along  the  balcony  fronting 
his  cell.  But  for  a  long  time  he  could  not  get 
used  to  the  snoring  of  his  cellmate. 

Sing  Sing  being  overcrowded,  as  chronically 
it  is,  it  had  been  expedient  to  put  Looms  in  a 
cell  with  another  prisoner.  To  the  constituted 
authorities  this  prisoner  was  known  by  a  num 
ber,  but  the  inner  society  of  Tier  III  knew  him 
as  The  Plumber.  The  Plumber  was  a  hairy, 
thick-necked  mammal,  mostly  animal  but  with 
a  few  human  qualities  too.  The  animal  in  him 
came  out  most  strongly  when  he  slept.  As  the 
larger  man  and  by  virture  of  priority  of  occu 
pancy  he  had  the  lower  bunk,  while  Looms,  per 
force,  took  the  upper. 

The  Plumber  slept  always  on  his  back. 
When  his  eyes  closed  his  mouth  opened;  then, 
hour  after  hour,  unceasingly,  he  snored  a 
gurgling,  rumbling  drone.  It  almost  drove 
Looms  crazy — that  snoring.  In  the  night 
he  would  roll  over  on  his  elbow  and  peer  down, 
[31] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


craning  his  neck  to  glare  in  silent  rage  at  the 
spraddled  bulk  beneath  him.  He  would  be 
seized  with  a  longing  to  climb  down  softly  and 
to  fix  his  ten  fingers  in  that  fat  and  heaving 
throat  and  hold  fast  until  the  sound  of  its  ex 
haust  was  shut  off  forever. 

After  a  while,  though,  he  got  used  to  The 
Plumber's  snoring,  just  as  he  had  got  used  to 
the  food  and  the  work  and  the  heavy  air  and 
the  cell  and  all.  He  got  used  to  being  caged 
with  a  companion  in  a  space  that  was  much  too 
small,  really,  for  either  of  them.  A  man  can 
get  used  to  anything — if  he  has  to.  He  even 
came  to  have  a  sort  of  sense  of  comradeship 
for  his  cellmate. 

The  Plumber  was  not  a  real  plumber.  By 
profession  he  was  a  footpad,  a  common  high 
wayman  of  the  city  streets,  a  disciple  in  prac 
tice  of  Dick  Turpin  and  Jack  Sheppard;  but 
possessed  of  none  of  those  small  graces  of  per 
son,  those  prettified  refinements  of  air  and 
manner  with  which  romance  has  invested  these 
masters  of  the  calling. 

His  title  was  derived  from  his  method  of  oper 
ation.  Dressed  in  the  overalls  of  an  honest 
workingman  and  carrying  in  his  pocket  a  pair 
of  pliers,  a  wrench  and  a  foot-long  scrap  of  gas 
pipe,  he  ranged  the  darker  streets  of  his  own 
East  Side  at  night  on  the  lookout  for  business. 
Spying  out  a  prospective  victim,  he  would  first 
wrap  the  gas  pipe  in  a  handy  newspaper;  then, 
stalking  his  quarry  from  behind,  he  would 
[32] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

knock  him  cold  with  one  blow  of  the  gas  pipe 
on  the  skull,  strip  the  victim's  pockets  of  what 
cash  they  contained,  and  depart  with  all  possi 
ble  despatch,  casting  aside  the  newspaper  as  he 
went.  If  there  was  any  blood  it  would  be  on 
the  newspaper;  there  would  be  none  on  the  gas 
pipe. 

Should  suspicion  fall  on  its  owner — why,  he 
was  merely  a  straight-faring  artisan,  bound 
homeward,  with  certain  of  the  tools  and  impedi 
menta  of  his  trade  on  his  person.  It  had  been 
The  Plumber's  own  idea,  this  device  of  the  gas 
pipe  and  the  evening  paper,  and  he  was  proud 
of  it  and  derisive  of  the  imitators  who  had 
adopted  it  after  he,  growing  incautious,  had 
been  caught,  as  it  were,  red-handed  and  sent 
up  the  river. 

With  pride  and  a  wealth  of  detail  he  confided 
these  professional  secrets  to  his  spectacled  little 
bunkie  after  he  came  to  know  him.  A  frag 
ment  at  a  time  he  told  Looms  of  his  life,  his 
likes  and  dislikes,  and  his  associates  in  crime- 
dom.  He  taught  Looms  the  tricks  of  the 
prison,  too — how  to  pass  messages;  how  to 
curry  the  favour  of  the  keepers;  how,  when  so 
desiring,  to  smuggle  contrabands  in  and  out; 
how  to  talk  with  one's  neighbours  while  at  work 
or  at  mess,  where  silence  is  demanded,  which 
same  is  accomplished  with  the  eyes  facing 
straight  ahead  and  the  words  slipping  sidewise 
from  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  the  lips  mean- 
time  moving  but  little.  Considering  the  differ- 


LOCAL      COLOR 

ences  in  them,  they  came  to  be  pretty  good 
friends. 

Evenings  and  Sundays  and  holidays  The 
Plumber  would  take  the  floor,  literally  as  well  as 
figuratively.  He  would  stand  at  the  door  of 
their  cell,  shifting  from  foot  to  foot  like  a  caged 
cat-animal  in  quarters  too  small  for  it,  and 
sniffing  like  an  animal  through  the  small 
squares  of  the  iron  lattice;  or  else  he  would 
pace  back  and  forth  the  length  of  the  cell,  con 
stantly  scraping  his  body  between  the  wall  and 
the  edge  of  the  upper  berth.  In  these  move 
ments  he  found  relief  from  his  restlessness. 

And  while  The  Plumber  walked  and  talked 
Looms  would  lie  prone  on  his  bed  listening  or 
making  notes.  For  making  these  notes  he 
used  an  indelible  pencil,  and  for  greater  security 
against  discovery  he  set  them  down  in  short 
hand.  The  shorthand  was  partly  of  his  own 
devising  and  partly  based  on  an  accepted  sten 
ographic  system.  As  fast  as  he  filled  one  sheet 
of  paper  with  the  minutely  done,  closely  spaced 
lines  he  pasted  it  to  another  sheet;  so  that  in 
time  he  had  a  long,  continuous  strip,  all  written 
over  thickly  with  tiny,  purplish-blue  characters. 
Being  folded  flat  and  thin  and  inclosed  in  an  en 
velope  made  of  thin  leather  pilfered  from  the 
shoe  shop,  this  cipher  manuscript  was  carried 
by  Looms  inside  his  shirt  during  the  day,  and 
it  went  under  his  pillow  when  he  slept.  Once  a 
week  he  was  sent  to  the  baths.  At  such  times 
he  hid  the  precious  packet  beneath  his  mattress. 

[84] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


The  Plumber,  of  course,  had  abundant  op 
portunity  to  examine  these  notes;  but  naturally 
enough  he  could  make  nothing  of  them.  Privily 
he  catalogued  Looms — or  Williams,  which  he 
thought  was  his  cell-mate's  name — as  a  sort  of 
harmless  lunatic;  in  short,  a  nut.  Looms 
meantime  made  copy  out  of  The  Plumber.  He 
meant  to  use  The  Plumber  as  a  character  in  his 
book — as  one  of  the  principal  characters.  A 
criminal  of  the  type  of  The  Plumber  ought  to 
furnish  much  material;  and  without  his  sus 
pecting  it  he  did  furnish  much. 

At  the  end  of  nine  months  they  parted.  The 
Plumber,  having  completed  his  term,  went 
forth  to  sin  some  more.  Thereafter  Looms 
had  a  cell  to  himself.  Before  very  long,  his 
record  being  clean,  he  was  the  recipient  of  a 
mark  of  favour  from  the  warden's  office.  He 
became  a  trusty.  As  a  trusty  he  was  doubly 
alert  to  win  special  privileges  for  himself.  He 
knew  all  the  tricks  and  devices  of  the  place  by 
now.  Outwardly  he  was  every  inch  a  convict — 
a  commonplace  convict  if  not  a  typical  one.  In 
wardly  he  now  frequently  caught  himself  slip 
ping  into  a  convict's  mode  of  thinking — found 
himself  viewing  his  prison  existence,  not  as  an 
observer  of  the  system  but  as  an  integral  part 
and  parcel  of  the  prison  machine. 

Drugged  by  the  stupefying  monotony  of  it  he 
felt  sometimes  as  though  he  had  always  been  a 
convict.  The  days  passed,  leaving  no  conscious 
impressions  on  the  retina  of  his  brain.  It  was 


LOCAL     COLOR 


as  though  he  rode  on  an  endless  band,  which 
circled  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  never  chang 
ing  its  gait  or  its  orbit.  It  took  an  effort  to  rid 
himself  of  this  feeling. 

The  graybacks  which  crawled  over  his  body 
at  night,  coming  out  of  the  cracks  of  the  wall 
and  the  folds  of  his  blanket  to  bite  his  flesh, 
no  longer  made  him  sick,  for  they  were  part  of 
the  system  too. 

Not  once  did  he  regret  what  he  had  done  to 
get  himself  into  Sing  Sing. 

The  first  year  went  by  thus,  and  the  second, 
and  Looms  entered  on  the  third.  He  still  kept 
his  flat  packet  of  manuscript  close  and  safe, 
wearing  it  in  its  leather  envelope  next  to  his 
skin;  but  now  he  added  no  more  notes  in  his 
cryptic  shorthand  code.  He  told  himself  he 
added  no  more  because  he  already  had  at  his 
fingers'  ends,  waiting  to  be  transcribed  into 
copy,  the  whole  drama  of  prison  life — the  poi 
sons  it  distills;  the  horrors  it  breeds;  its  quali 
ties  and  its  inequalities;  its  wrongs  that  might 
be  reformed  and  its  wrongs  that  can  never  be 
reformed.  This  was  what  he  told  himself. 
The  fact  remained  that  for  the  last  seven 
months  of  his  imprisonment  he  set  down  no  notes. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  year  he  was  dis 
charged. 

The  man  who  had  entered  Sing  Sing  three 
years  before  was  not  the  man  who  came  out. 
[36] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

The  man  who  went  in  had  been  slender  and 
quick  of  movement,  careful  of  his  personal  ap 
pearance,  almost  old-maidish  in  his  neatness. 
He  carried  himself  erectly;  he  walked  with 
rather  a  brisk  tread.  This  man  had  shapely 
hands. 

The  man  who  came  out  resembled  the  other 
in  that  he  was  small  of  frame  and  wore  thick- 
lensed  glasses.  In  nearly  every  other  essential 
regard  he  differed  from  him.  Even  his  height 
seemed  less,  for  now  he  moved  with  a  stoop  in 
his  shoulders  and  with  his  head  sunken.  His 
hands  dangled  at  his  sides  as  though  they  had 
grown  too  heavy  for  the  arms  on  which  they 
were  hung.  They  were  the  hands  of  one  who 
has  done  coarse  manual  labour — the  nails  were 
blunted  and  broken,  the  palms  bossed  with  warty 
calluses.  This  man  walked  with  a  time-killing 
shamble,  scraping  his  feet  along.  Beneath  the 
natural  sallowness  of  his  skin  his  face  had  the 
bleached,  unhealthy  look  of  any  living  thing 
that  has  been  kept  too  long  in  artificial  twi 
light,  away  from  fresh  air  and  sunshine.  By 
its  colour  it  suggested  a  pale  plant  growing  in  a 
cellar,  a  weed  sprig  that  had  sprouted  beneath 
a  log.  It  suggested  a  white  grub  burrowing  in 
rotted  wood. 

The  greatest  change  of  all,  however,  was  in 
the  expression  of  the  face;  for  now  the  eyes 
moved  with  a  furtive,  darting  movement — a 
quick  scrutiny  that  lingered  on  its  target  for  a 
second  only  and  then  flashed  away.  And 
[37] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


when  the  lips  framed  words  the  mouth,  from 
force  of  training,  was  pursed  at  the  corner,  so 
that  the  issuing  speech  could  be  heard  with 
greater  distinctness  by  one  who  stood  alongside 
the  speaker  than  by  one  who  faced  him. 

The  clothes  Looms  had  worn  when  he  entered 
the  prison  had  disappeared;  so  for  his  reen- 
trance  into  the  world  the  authorities  gave  him 
a  suit  of  prison-made  slops,  poorly  cut  and 
bunchily  sewed.  They  gave  him  this  suit  of 
clothes,  a  shirt  and  a  hat  and  a  pair  of  shoes; 
also  a  small  sum  of  money,  a  ticket  back  to  the 
point  from  which  he  had  been  brought,  and  the 
small  articles  that  had  been  taken  from  his  per 
son  at  the  time  he  entered  Sing  Sing. 

These  and  his  sheaf  of  shorthand  notes 
pasted  together,  folded  flat  and  inclosed  in  his 
small  leather  pack,  were  all  that  Felix  Looms 
brought  away  with  him  from  the  prison. 

Once  more  he  went  afoot  along  the  dusty 
road,  followed  the  ridge  along  the  river,  crossed 
the  bridge  above  the  railroad  tracks  and  de 
scended  to  the  station  below  to  wait  for  a  train 
bound  for  the  city.  Persons  who  were  gathered 
on  the  platform  looked  at  him — some  under- 
standingly;  some  curiously.  He  found  it  easier 
to  evade  their  eyes  than  to  return  their  stares. 

Presently  a  train  came  and  he  boarded  it, 
finding  a  seat  in  the  smoker.  The  exaltation 
that  had  possessed  him  when  he  went  to  Sing 
Sing  was  all  gone.  A  certain  indefinable  numb- 
ness  affected  his  body,  his  limbs,  his  mind,  mak- 


LOCAL      COLOR 


ing  his  thoughts  heavy  and  his  movements 
sluggish.  For  months  past  he  had  felt  this 
numbness;  but  he  had  felt  sure  that  liberty 
and  the  coming  of  the  time  for  the  fulfillment 
of  his  great  work  would  dissipate  it.  He  was 
free  now,  and  still  the  lassitude  persisted. 

He  viewed  the  prospect  of  beginning  his  novel 
with  no  particular  enthusiasm.  He  said  to 
himself  that  disuse  of  the  pen  had  made  him 
rusty;  that  the  old  enthusiasm,  which  is  born 
of  creation,  of  achievement,  of  craftsmanship 
exercised,  would  return  to  him  as  soon  as  he  had 
put  the  first  word  of  his  book  on  paper;  and 
that  after  that  the  story  would  pour  forth  with 
hardly  a  conscious  effort  on  his  part.  It  had 
been  so  in  the  past;  to  a  much  greater  degree  it 
should  be  so  now.  Yet,  for  the  moment,  he 
viewed  the  prospect  of  starting  his  novel  almost 
with  physical  distaste. 

In  this  mental  fog  he  rode  until  the  train 
rolled  into  the  Grand  Central  Station  and 
stopped.  Seeing  his  fellow  passengers  getting 
off  he  roused  himself  and  followed  them  as  they 
trailed  in  straggling  lines  through  the  train  shed 
and  out  into  the  great  new  terminal.  It  was 
late  afternoon  of  a  summer's  day. 

His  plans  immediately  following  his  advent 
into  the  city  had  all  been  figured  out  long  in 
advance.  He  meant  to  seek  obscure  lodgings 
until  he  could  secure  a  few  needed  additions  to 
his  wardrobe.  Then  he  would  communicate 
with  his  publisher  and  make  to  him  a  private 
[39] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


confession  regarding  his  whereabouts  during 
the  past  three  years,  and  outline  to  him  the 
book  he  had  in  mind  to  write.  Under  the  cir 
cumstances  it  would  be  easy  to  secure  a  cash 
advance  from  any  publisher. 

Thus  fortified  with  ready  money  Looms 
would  go  away  to  some  quiet  place  in  the  coun 
try  and  write  the  book.  Mulling  these  details 
over  in  his  head  he  shambled  along  automati 
cally  until  suddenly  he  found  himself  standing 
in  Forty-second  Street.  He  slipped  backward 
involuntarily,  for  the  crowds  that  swirled  by 
him  daunted  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they 
were  ten  times  as  thick,  ten  times  as  noisy,  ten 
times  as  hurried  as  they  had  been  when  last  he 
paused  in  that  locality. 

For  a  minute,  irresolute,  he  hesitated  in 
the  shelter  of  the  station  doorway.  Then, 
guided  by  habit,  a  thing  which  often  sleeps  but 
rarely  dies,  he  headed  westward.  He  walked 
as  close  to  the  building  line  as  he  could  squeeze 
himself,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  main  channels  of 
sidewalk  travel.  When  he  came  to  Fifth 
Avenue  he  mechanically  turned  north,  shrinking 
aside  from  contact  with  the  swarms  of  well- 
dressed,  quick-paced  men  and  women  who 
passed  him,  bound  in  the  opposite  direction. 
From  the  asphalt  beyond  the  curbing  arose  a 
clamour  of  wheels  and  hoofs  and  feet  which 
dinned  unpleasantly  in  his  ears,  creating  a  sub 
conscious  sense  of  irritation. 

He  moved  along,  dragging  his  feet,  for  two 


LOCAL     COLOR 


blocks;  then  halted  on  a  corner.  A  big  build 
ing  rose  before  him,  a  building  with  many  open 
windows.  There  were  awnings  and  flower 
boxes  at  the  windows;  and,  looking  in  at  the 
window  nearest  him,  he  caught  sight  of  well- 
dressed  men  and  women  sitting  at  tables. 
With  almost  a  physical  jolt  he  realised  that  this 
was  a  restaurant  in  which  he  himself  had  dined 
many  a  time  on  such  an  evening  as  this;  some 
how,  though,  those  times  seemed  centuries 
back  of  him  in  a  confused  previous  existence. 

A  uniformed  carriage  starter,  who  stood  at 
one  of  the  entrances,  began  staring  at  him  and 
he  went  on  up  the  avenue  with  his  hands 
rammed  deep  into  his  pockets,  his  head  bent 
between  his  shoulders,  and  his  heels  dragging 
on  the  sidewalk.  He  had  a  feeling  that  every 
body  was  staring  at  him.  It  nagged  and  pes 
tered  him — this  did. 

He  continued  his  way  for  four  or  five  blocks, 
or  possibly  six,  for  he  took  no  close  note  of  his 
progress.  Really  he  had  no  purpose  in  this 
northward  progress;  a  restlessness  he  could 
not  analyse  kept  him  moving.  He  came  to 
another  building,  also  with  awninged  windows. 
He  knew  it  for  a  club.  Once  or  twice,  he  re 
called,  he  had  been  in  that  club  as  a  guest  of  a 
member,  but  for  the  moment  he  could  not 
think  of  its  name.  Sitting  at  a  window  facing 
him  were  two  men  and  in  a  spurt  of  reviving 
memory  he  placed  one  of  them  as  a  man 
he  had  known  slightly — a  man  named  Wai- 


LOCAL     COLOR 


croft,  a  corporation  lawyer  with  offices  down 
town. 

This  man  Walcroft  stared  straight  into 
Looms'  face,  but  hi  his  eyes  there  was  no 
glint  of  recognition;  only  on  his  face  was  a 
half-amused,  half-contemptuous  expression  as 
though  he  wondered  why  a  person  of  so  dubious 
an  appearance  should  be  loitering  along  Fifth 
Avenue  at  such  an  hour. 

Looms,  squinting  back  at  Walcroft  through 
his  glasses,  felt  a  poke  in  the  small  of  the  back. 
He  swung  round;  a  policeman  approaching 
from  the  rear  had  touched  him  with  a  gloved 
thumb.  The  look  the  policeman  gave  him  as 
they  faced  each  other  was  at  once  appraising, 
disapproving  and  suspicious. 

"Move  on!"  he  said  briskly.  "Keep 
movin'!" 

"I'm  doing  nothing,"  said  Looms  slowly;  but 
as  he  spoke  he  backed  away  a  pace  or  two  and 
his  eyes  flickered  and  shifted  uneasily,  avoiding 
the  policeman's  direct  and  accusing  stare. 

"That's  the  trouble,"  said  the  policeman. 
"You're  doin'  nothing  now,  but  you're  likely 
to  do  something  if  you  stay  here.  Beat  it! 
You're  in  the  wrong  street!"  With  an  air  of 
finality  the  policeman  turned  away. 

Irresolutely  the  ex-convict  retreated  a  few 
yards  more,  stepping  out  into  the  roadway. 
Was  he  indeed  in  the  wrong  street?  Was  that 
why  he  felt  so  uncomfortable?  Yes,  that  must 
be  it — he  was  in  the  wrong  street!  Fifth 


LOCAL      COLOR 

Avenue  was  not  for  him  any  more,  even  though 
once  he  had  lived  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

As  he  shambled  across  to  the  opposite  side 
walk  he  shoved  his  hand  up  under  his  hat, 
which  was  too  large  for  him,  and  scratched  his 
head  in  a  new  perplexity.  And  then  to  him, 
in  a  flash,  came  a  solution  of  the  situation,  and 
with  it  came  inspiration  and  purpose.  It  was 
precisely  in  that  brief  moment  that  Felix 
Looms,  the  well-known  writer,  died,  he  having 
been  killed  instantaneously  by  the  very  thing 
after  which  he  had  lusted. 

The  man  who  had  been  Felix  Looms — Felix 
Looms,  who  was  now  dead — headed  eastward 
through  a  cross  street.  He  hurried  along, 
moving  now  with  decision  and  with  more  speed 
than  he  had  shown  in  his  loitering  course  from 
the  station.  In  turn  he  crossed  Madison 
Avenue  and  Park  Avenue  and  Lexington 
Avenue,  so  that  soon  the  district  of  big  restau 
rants  and  clubs  and  churches  and  hotels  and 
apartment  houses  lay  behind  him  and  he  had 
arrived  in  a  less  pretentious  and  more  crowded 
quarter.  He  reached  Third  Avenue,  with  its 
small  shops  and  its  tenements,  and  the  L  struc 
ture  running  down  the  middle  of  it;  he  crossed 
it  and  kept  on. 

Midway  of  the  next  block  he  came  to  a  place 
where  a  building  was  in  course  of  construction. 
The  ground  floor  was  open  to  the  street,  for  the 
facade,  which  was  to  be  a  shop  front,  had  not 
gone  up  yet.  The  slouching  pedestrian  stopped 
[43] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


and  looked  in  searchingly.  He  saw  scattered 
about  over  a  temporary  flooring,  which  was  laid 
roughly  on  the  basement  rafters,  a  clutter  of 
materials  and  supplies.  He  saw  a  line  of  gas 
pipes  and  water  pipes,  which  protruded  their 
ends  from  beneath  a  pile  of  sheathing,  looking 
rather  like  the  muzzles  of  a  battery  of  gun  bar 
rels  of  varied  bores. 

At  sight  of  this  piping  the  eyes  of  the  passer 
by  narrowed  earnestly.  Over  his  shoulders, 
this  way  and  that,  he  glanced.  There  was  no 
watchman  hi  sight.  The  workmen — all  good 
union  men,  doubtless — had  knocked  off  for  the 
day;  but  it  was  not  yet  dark  and  probably  the 
night  watchman  had  not  come  on  duty. 

He  looked  again,  and  then  he  stepped  inside 
the  building. 

In  a  minute  or  so  he  was  out.  He  had  one 
arm  pressed  closely  against  his  side  as  though 
to  maintain  the  position  of  something  he  carried 
hidden  beneath  his  coat.  Head  down,  he 
walked  eastward.  Between  Third  Avenue  and 
Second  he  found  the  place  for  which  he  sought 
— a  small  paved  passageway  separating  two 
tenements,  its  street  end  being  stopped  with  a 
wooden  door-gate  which  swung  unlocked.  He 
entered  the  alley,  slipping  into  the  space  just 
behind  the  protecting  shield  of  the  gate. 

When  he  emerged  from  here  the  brick  paving 
of  the  passage  where  he  had  tarried  was  covered 
with  tough  paper,  torn  to  ragged  fragments. 
There  was  a  great  mess  of  these  paper  scraps 


LOCAL      COLOR 


on  the  bricks.  A  small  leather  envelope,  worn 
slick  by  much  handling,  gaped  emptily  where 
it  had  been  dropped  in  an  angle  of  the  wall 
behind  the  door.  The  man  responsible  for  this 
litter  continued  on  his  way.  His  left  arm  was 
still  held  tight  against  his  side,  holding  upright 
a  fourteen-inch  length  of  gas  pipe  the  man  had 
pilfered  from  the  unfinished  building  a  block 
away. 

About  the  gas  pipe  was  wrapped  a  roll  of 
sheets  of  thin  paper,  pasted  together  end  to 
end  and  closely  covered  with  minute  characters 
done  in  indelible,  purplish-blue  shorthand  ci 
phers.  The  sheets,  forming  as  they  did  a  con 
tinuous  strip,  spiralled  about  the  gas  pipe 
snugly,  protecting  and  hiding  the  entire  length 
of  the  heavy  metal  tube. 

This  was  about  six  o'clock.  About  nine 
o'clock  Marcus  Fishman,  a  Roumanian  tailor, 
going  to  his  home  in  Avenue  A  from  a  sweat 
shop  in  Second  Avenue,  was  stalked  by  a  foot 
pad  at  a  dark  spot  in  East  Fifty-first  Street, 
not  far  from  the  river,  and  was  knocked  sense 
less  by  a  blow  on  the  head  and  robbed  of  eleven 
dollars  and  sixty  cents. 

A  boy  saw  the  robbery  committed  and  he  fol 
lowed  after  the  disappearing  robber,  setting  up 
a  shrill  outcry  that  speedily  brought  other  pur 
suers.  One  of  these  stopped  long  enough  to 
pick  up  a  paper-covered  gas  pipe  the  fugitive 
had  cast  aside. 

[45] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


The  chase  was  soon  over.  As  the  fleeing 
footpad  turned  the  corner  of  Fiftieth  Street 
and  First  Avenue  he  plunged  headlong  into  the 
outspread  arms  of  Policeman  Otto  Stein,  who 
subdued  him  after  a  brief  struggle.  The  tailor's 
money  was  still  clutched  in  his  hand. 

In  the  Headquarters  Rogues'  Gallery  the 
prisoner's  likeness  was  found;  also  his  measure 
ments  were  hi  the  Bertillon  Bureau,  thus  identi 
fying  him  beyond  doubt  as  James  Williams,  who 
had  been  convicted  three  years  before  as  a  pick 
pocket.  Further  inquiry  developed  the  fact 
that  Williams  had  been  released  that  very  day 
from  Sing  Sing. 

On  his  trial  for  highway  robbery,  James  Wil 
liams,  as  a  confirmed  and  presumably  an  in 
corrigible  offender,  was  given  no  mercy.  He 
got  a  minimum  of  five  years  in  state  prison  at 
hard  labour. 


[46] 


CHAPTER  II 
FIELD    OF   HONOR 


THIS  war,  which  started  with  the  assas 
sination  of  an  archduke  and  his  arch 
duchess — a  thing  we  are  apt  to  forget 
about  in  the  face  of  a  tragedy  a  billion- 
fold  greater — this  war,  which  started  thus  and 
so,  already  has  touched  or  is  touching  or  yet  will 
touch,  at  some  angle  and  in  some  fashion,  every 
one  of  us  in  every  corner  of  the  world.  Some  it 
has  touched  indirectly,  by  the  oblique.-  Upon 
others,  who  are  as  numberless  now  as  the  sands 
on  the  shore,  it  has  come  with  such  brutal  em 
phasis  that  it  must  seem  to  them — such  of  them 
as  survive — that  the  whole  incredible  business 
was  devised  and  set  afoot  for  the  one  and  the 
sole  purpose  of  levelling  them,  their  lives  and 
their  own  small  personal  affairs  in  the  bloodied 
red  mire  of  this  thing. 

For  example,  let  us  take  the  case  of  Paul 

Gaston  Michel  Misereux,  his  orphaned  sister 

Marie  and  his  orphaned  half-sister  Helene.     In 

the  summer  of  1914  they  lived  in  a  three-room 

[47] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


flat  in  a  five-story  tenement  house  in  East 
Thirteenth  Street  in  New  York,  not  far  from 
the  East  River. 

New  York  seemed  a  long,  long  way  then  from 
the  town  of  Sarajevo  wherein  the  egg  of  war 
was  hatching.  Indeed,  to  the  three  I  have  just 
named  New  York  seemed  a  long  way  from  most 
of  the  things  which  to  their  uncomplex  natures 
stood  for  what  was  comfortable  and  domestic 
and  satisfying.  They  were  desperately  home 
sick  very  often  for  the  Paris  where  they  had 
been  born  and  reared,  and  from  where  they  had 
emigrated  two  years  before  after  the  death  of 
their  father. 

But  that  summer  the  homesickness  was  wear 
ing  off  a  little.  The  city,  which  at  the  moment 
of  seeing  its  notched  and  fangy  skyline  as  they 
came  up  the  bay  had  appeared  to  them  not  as  a 
gateway  into  a  promised  land  but  as  a  great 
sabre-toothed  shark  of  a  city  lying  in  wait  to 
grind  them  up  between  its  jaws,  and  which  for 
the  first  few  months  of  their  life  here  had  been 
so  cold,  so  inhospitable,  so  strange  in  all  its 
ways,  so  terribly  intent  upon  its  own  matters 
and  so  terribly  disregardful  of  theirs,  was  be 
ginning  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere 
abiding  place  to  them.  To  them  it  was  begin 
ning  to  be  home.  The  lonesomeness  was  losing 
some  of  its  smart.  In  another  year  or  two  more 
France  would  be  the  old  country  and  America 
would  be  their  country. 

Paul  fancied  himself  half  an  American  al- 

[48] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

ready.  He  had  taken  out  his  first  papers, 
which,  as  he  figured  it,  made  him  part  way  a 
citizen.  Before  very  long  he  would  be  all  a 
citizen.  Likewise,  by  the  practice  of  a  thou 
sand  petty  economies  common  among  the  first 
generation  of  foreigners  who  settle  here  and 
most  remarkably  uncommon  among  their  de 
scendants,  they  were  starting  in  a  small  frugal 
way  to  prosper.  If  New  York  had  given  them 
a  stone  when  they  came  into  it  asking  for 
bread,  it  was  giving  them  now  the  bread,  and 
the  butter  to  go  on  the  bread. 

Paul  Misereux  was  a  pastry  cook.  He 
worked  as  assistant  to  a  chief  pastry  cook  in  a 
basement  kitchen  under  a  big,  medium-priced 
restaurant  near  Union  Square.  He  was  small 
and  dumpy  and  unhandsome,  with  the  dead- 
white  face  of  a  man  cook.  His  skin,  seen  by 
daylight,  had  a  queer  glaze  on  it,  like  the  sur 
face  of  a  well-fluxed,  well-baked  crockery. 
Once  it  had  been  a  blistery  red;  that  though 
was  in  the  days  of  his  apprenticeship  to  this 
trade.  The  constant  heat  of  it  had  acted 
upon  him  as  alcohol  does  upon  the  complexion 
of  a  man  who  gets  drunk  quickly — it  made  him 
deathly  white  at  the  last,  but  before  that  it 
made  him  red. 

He  was  the  chief  breadwinner.  Marie  had  a 
place  as  trimmer  and  saleswoman  in  a  small 
millinery  shop  on  lower  Sixth  Avenue.  Helene, 
the  half  sister  and  youngest  of  the  three,  was  the 
housekeeper.  She  was  inclined  to  be  frail  and 
[49] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


she  had  a  persistent  cough.  She  was  not  in  the 
least  pretty.  For  the  matter  of  that,  none  of 
them  had  any  provable  claim  upon  beauty. 

So  far  as  looks  went  Marie  was  the  pick  of  the 
lot.  At  least  she  had  fine  eyes  and  a  trim 
round  figure  that  showed  to  its  best  advantage 
in  the  close-fitting,  smooth-fronted  uniform  of 
her  employment — a  black  frock  with  white 
collar  and  cuffs. 

That  June,  there  was  a  balance  showing  on 
the  happy  side  of  their  partnership  ledger. 
Paul  had  his  mind  set  upon  some  day  owning 
a  business  of  his  own — a  bakeshop,  perhaps 
even  a  small  cafe.  For  her  part  Marie  meant 
to  be  a  fashionable  milliner  in  her  own  right. 
When  Paul  was  the  proprietor  of  the  biggest 
restaurant  on  Broadway  she  would  be  Madame, 
the  mistress  and  the  owner  of  the  smartest  hat- 
shop  along  Fifth  Avenue.  Helene  was  content 
to  go  on  keeping  house  for  the  other  two.  The 
limit  of  her  present  ambitions  was  to  be  rid  of 
her  cough.  To  marrying  and  to  the  rearing  of 
families  none  of  them  gave  thought  yet;  there 
would  be  time  for  such  things  in  due  season, 
after  affluence  had  come.  Meanwhile,  they 
would  dwell  together  and  save  and  save  and 
save.  Deposited  to  their  joint  account  in  the 
savings  bank,  the  nest-egg  of  their  hopes  grew 
at  the  rate  of  a  few  dollars  each  week,  drawing 
interest  besides;  and  there  was  meat  in  the 
pot  when  they  felt  the  need  of  meat  to  stay 
them. 

[50] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


Over  yonder  in  Sarajevo  a  stumpy  Serbian 
man,  with  twisted  ideas  regarding  his  patriotic 
duties,  loaded  up  an  automatic  pistol  and  waited 
for  a  certain  carriage  of  state  to  pass  a  given 
point.  The  carriage  did  pass,  and  presently 
the  man  and  the  woman  who  rode  in  it  were 
both  of  them  dead — the  first  to  fall  in  the  war 
which  as  to  date  claimed  so  rich  a  toll  of  the 
manhood  of  this  planet,  and  which,  being  the 
unslakable  glutton  that  it  is,  continues  to  claim 
more  and  more  with  every  day  that  passes. 
The  echoes  of  those  pistol  shots  ran  round  the 
world  and  round  again. 

A  monarch  on  a  throne  in  Germany  ex 
changed  telegrams  with  his  beloved  cousin  in 
Russia,  and  with  another  revered  and  vener 
ated  cousin  in  England,  and  with  a  dear  but 
distant  kinsman  of  his  in  Belgium,  and  with  a 
respected  friend,  not  related  to  him  by  ties  of 
blood  or  marriage,  who  chanced  for  the  moment 
to  be  the  president  of  a  republic  in  France. 
A  family  quarrel  started  up.  The  quarrel  having 
progressed  to  a  point  where  the  correspondents 
lost  their  affection  for  one  another,  they  sever 
ally  called  upon  the  people  who  suffered  them 
to  be  what  they  were  to  go  out  and  settle  the 
grudge  according  to  a  fashion  which  originated 
when  Cain  clouted  Abel  in  the  first  trade-war 
of  which  there  is  record.  Because  every  other 
war  from  that  day  to  this  has  been  a  trade-war, 
too,  the  plan  of  settlement  has  remained  the 
same  that  was  employed  by  Cain  when  he  made 

'[51] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


carrion  of  his  brother.  The  tools  of  this  fash 
ionable  industry  have  been  altered  and  greatly 
improved,  and  for  that  civilisation  is  to  be 
thanked;  but  the  results  do  not  in  the  least 
differ  from  the  original  forms. 

The  people  obeyed  their  rulers'  calls.  Look 
ing  back  on  it  now  it  seems  to  us,  who  are  on 
lookers,  that  there  was  no  good  and  sufficient 
reason  why  they  should  have  done  this,  but  we 
know  that  obedience  in  such  contingencies  is  a 
habit  which  has  come  down  to  them — and  to 
us — from  our  remotest  common  ancestors,  and 
it  runs  in  our  blood  with  the  corpuscles  of  our 
blood.  It  is  like  a  contagious  miasma,  which, 
being  breathed  into  the  body,  afflicts  all  its 
victims  with  the  same  symptoms.  So  they  put 
on  the  liveries  designed  for  them  by  their  lords 
against  the  coming  of  just  such  an  occasion — 
shoddy-wools,  or  khakis,  or  red-and-blue  fus 
tians,  as  the  case  might  be — and  they  went  out, 
these  men  and  these  boys  who  were  not  yet 
men,  to  adjudicate  the  misunderstanding  which 
had  arisen  as  between  the  occupants  of  sundry 
palaces  in  sundry  capital  cities. 

The  tide  of  war — such  being  the  pretty  phrase 
coined  by  those  who  would  further  popularise 
the  institution — lapped  one  shore  after  another. 
It  went  from  hemisphere  to  continent,  from  con 
tinent  to  archipelago,  from  archipelago  to  scat 
tered  islands  in  seas  suddenly  grown  barren 
of  commerce.  It  flooded  jungles  in  South 
Africa;  it  inundated  the  back  corners  of  Aus- 

[52] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


tralia;  it  picked  up  and  carried  away  on  its 
backwash  men  of  every  colour  and  of  every 
creed  and  of  every  breed.  It  crossed  the  At 
lantic  Ocean  to  New  York,  and  having  crossed, 
it  reached  into  a  basement  near  Union  Square 
for  Paul  Misereux.  And  the  way  of  that  was 
this: 

France  called  out  her  reserves.  Paul  Miser 
eux,  although  half  an  American,  as  has  been 
stated,  was  likewise  a  French  reservist.  So  at 
length  the  call  came  to  him.  Although  he  was 
French  he  was  not  excitable.  He  accepted  the 
summons  very  calmly  and  as  a  matter  of  course. 
He  had  been  expecting  that  it  would  come, 
sooner  or  later.  That  same  day  he  visited  the 
office  of  the  French  consul  where  certain  formal 
ities  were  speedily  concluded.  Then  he  went 
home  and  to  his  sister  and  his  half-sister  he  very 
quietly  broke  the  news  of  what  had  happened 
and  what  he  had  done;  and  very  quietly  they 
took  it.  For  they  were  not  outwardly  emotional 
either. 

For  six  days  life  in  the  three-room  flat  went 
on  very  much  as  it  had  gone  on  before,  except 
that  the  sisters  went  daily  now  to  early  mass, 
and  on  the  first  morning  following  the  brother 
did  not  shave  himself  when  he  got  up.  French 
soldiers  mainly  wear  beards,  and  he  meant  his 
beard  should  be  well  sprouted  when  he  reported 
for  service.  At  the  end  of  those  six  days,  on 
the  seventh  day,  a  new  assistant  pastry  cook 
began  serving  in  the  restaurant  cellar  and  a 
[53] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


steamer  drew  out  of  her  New  York  dock  with 
flags  flying,  being  bound — God  and  the  sub 
marines  willing — for  foreign  parts.  On  the  deck 
set  apart  for  the  second-class  passengers,  close 
up  against  the  rail  that  was  next  the  shore,  Paul 
Misereux  stood,  a  most  dumpy  and  unheroic 
figure  of  a  man,  with  patches  of  woolly  beard 
showing  on  his  pale  chops,  waving  his  hand, 
and  with  many  others  singing  the  Marseillaise 
Hymn. 

When  the  steamer  was  gone  from  sight  down 
the  river  toward  open  water  the  sisters  left  the 
pierhead  where  they  had  been  standing  and 
went  away,  Marie  to  her  job  in  the  millinery 
place  on  Sixth  Avenue  and  Helene  to  hers  in  the 
small  flat. 

Except  that  Paul  was  gone,  life  for  the  re 
maining  two  continued  for  a  while  after  this  to 
be  materially  unaltered.  Beyond  a  single  long 
letter  written  on  the  voyage  across  and  posted 
upon  his  arrival  at  Bordeaux,  they  had  no  word 
of  him.  For  this,  though,  he  was  not  to  blame. 
A  thing  so  systematic  it  had  no  aspect  of  being 
of  human  devisement  and  subject  to  human 
control  had  caught  him.  This  system  took 
him  in  hand  in  the  same  hour  that  his  feet 
touched  dry  land.  It  gave  him  a  number,  it 
clothed  him  in  a  uniform,  put  a  gun  in  his  hands, 
strapped  upon  his  back  and  about  his  waist 
and  on  his  flanks  all  the  other  tools  needful  for 
the  prosecution  of  the  highly  specialised  modern 
trade  of  manslaughter,  and  set  him  aboard  a 
[54] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

train  and  started  him  north.  Thereafter  the 
north  swallowed  him  up  and  concerning  him  no 
news  whatsoever  came  back.  He  was  an  atom 
in  a  world  event,  and  the  atoms  do  not  count 
even  though  they  contribute  to  the  progress  of 
the  event  itself. 

While  these  sisters  of  his  waited,  hoping  each 
day  the  postman  would  bring  them  a  letter  with 
a  French  stamp  and  a  French  postmark  on  it, 
but  sorely  dreading  what  the  portent  of  that 
letter  might  be,  a  stroke  of  bad  fortune  befell 
them.  The  man  who  owned  the  place  where 
Marie  worked  professed  to  deal  in  French  wares 
exclusively;  but  he  had  a  German  name  and  he 
spoke  with  a  German  accent.  Perhaps  he  felt 
deeply  the  things  some  people  said  to  him  and 
about  him  and  about  his  Fatherland.  Perhaps 
he  found  it  hard  to  be  neutral  in  his  words  and 
all  his  acts  when  so  many  about  him  were  so 
passionately  unneutral  in  their  words  and  their 
acts.  Perhaps  in  those  papers  which  avowedly 
were  pro-German,  and  in  those  which  avow 
edly  were  anti-German,  he  read  editorials 
that  changed  his  views  on  certain  subjects. 
You  see,  the  tide  of  war  had  searched  him 
out  too. 

Or  perhaps  after  all  he  merely  realised  the 
need,  in  a  time  when  business  conditions  were 
so  unsettled,  of  economising.  At  any  rate  one 
Saturday,  without  prior  warning,  he  dismissed 
from  his  employ  three  of  his  women  workers — 
an  outspoken  Irish  girl,  a  silent  Russian  Jewess, 

"    [55] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

whose  brothers  wore  the  uniform  of  a  govern 
ment  which  oppressed  them,  and  a  French  girl, 
this  last  being  Marie  Misereux. 

Monday  morning  early  Marie  was  abroad, 
trying  to  find  for  herself  a  new  job.  She  was 
deft  enough  with  her  fingers,  but  there  were 
handicaps  which  denied  her  opportunity  of 
proving  to  any  interested  person  just  how  deft 
those  fingers  of  hers  were.  For  one  thing,  mil 
linery  shops,  big  and  little,  were  retrenching  in 
their  expenses  or  trying  to.  For  another,  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  town  and  of  the  ways  of 
the  millinery  trade — her  first  job  had  been  her 
only  one.  Finally,  she  had  only  a  faulty  knowl 
edge  of  English,  and  that  in  some  lines  is  yet  a 
bar  against  the  applicant  for  work  even  in  the 
polyglot,  more-than-half-foreign  city  of  New 
York. 

The  week  which  began  with  that  Monday 
morning  went  by;  other  Mondays  and  other 
weeks  went  by,  and  Marie,  walking  the  soles 
off  her  shoes  upon  the  pavements  uptown  and 
downtown,  earned  nothing  at  all.  The  account 
in  the  savings  bank,  which  always  before  Paul 
went  away  had  grown  steadily  and  which  for  the 
first  month  or  so  after  he  went  had  grown  in  a 
lesser  degree,  was  dwindling  and  dwindling. 
Now  when  Helene  coughed  she  pressed  her  hand 
against  her  side.  There  was  no  news  of  their 
brother.  Except  for  a  few  distant  cousins  three 
thousand  miles  away,  they  had  no  kinspeople. 

And  in  this  country  they  had  no  friends. 

[56] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

Along  the  crest  of  a  low  hill,  like  a  seam,  ran  a 
succession  of  shattered  tree  trunks,  hemming 
earthline  to  skyline  with  ragged  and  irregular 
stitches.  Once  upon  a  time,  not  so  very  long 
before,  a  fine  little  grove  of  half -grown  poplars 
had  crowned  that  small  eminence.  But  the 
cannon  and  the  spouting  volleys  from  the  rapid- 
fire  guns  had  mowed  down  every  tree,  leaving 
only  the  mutilated  and  homely  boles. 

Upon  one  slope  of  the  hill — the  slope  that  was 
nearer  the  city — a  triangular-shaped  patch  of 
woodland  projected  its  point  like  a  promontory 
well  up  toward  the  hilltop.  The  shells  had 
wrought  most  grievously  here,  too,  but,  being 
protected  somewhat  by  the  dip  in  the  land,  the 
forest,  as  they  call  such  a  stretch  of  park  timber 
in  Europe,  had  not  suffered  in  the  same  propor 
tionate  extent  that  the  comb  of  saplings  higher 
up  suffered.  The  twistified  masses  of  shot- 
down  boughs  made  good  cover  for  the  French 
sharpshooters. 

Just  under  the  far  shoulder  of  the  rise,  zig 
zagging  this  way  and  that  after  the  fashion  of  a 
worm  that  has  stiff  joints,  was  a  German  trench 
—the  foremost  German  trench  of  all  the  myriad 
trenches  and  cross-trenches  that  formed  the 
sector  of  the  investments  at  this  particular 
point.  Behind  the  Germans  as  they  squatted 
in  this  trench  was  the  village  of  Brimont.  It 
had  been  a  village  once.  Now  it  was  a  flattened 
huddle  of  broken  masonry  and  shattered  wood- 
work,  from  which  arose  constantly  a  sour 
[57] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


stench  of  rotting  things.  Back  of  the  site  of  the 
village,  where  a  little  valley  made  out  between 
more  hills,  was  a  sunken  road  winding  off  to 
the  north.  Upon  either  side  of  the  road  were 
fields  gouged  by  misaimed  shells  until  the 
mangled  earth  looked  as  though  a  thousand 
swine  had  rooted  there  for  mast. 

That  was  what  the  Germans  saw  when  they 
looked  over  their  shoulders.  What  they  saw 
when  they  looked  straight  ahead  was,  first,  the 
patch  of  woodland  sheltering  their  foes  and 
beyond  that,  three  miles  away,  the  old  French 
city  of  Rheims,  with  the  damaged  towers  of  the 
great  cathedral  rising  above  lesser  buildings, 
and  on  beyond,  melting  away  into  blue  reaches  of 
space,  the  fields  of  Champagne.  That  is  to  say, 
they  could  see  so  much  when  the  weather  was 
clear,  which  generally  it  wasn't.  Nine  days  in 
ten,  this  time  of  the  year,  it  rained — the  cold, 
constant,  searching  rain  of  mid-October.  It 
was  raining  on  this  particular  day,  and  up  on 
this  saucer-rim  of  land,  which  ringed  the  plain 
in,  the  wind  blew  steadily  with  a  raw  bite  to  it. 

Firing  back  and  forth  between  defenders  and 
besiegers  went  on  intermittently.  At  this  spot 
there  was  no  hard  fighting;  there  had  been  none 
for  weeks.  Farther  way,  right  and  left,  along 
the  battle  line  which  stretched  from  Switzer 
land  to  the  sea,  the  big  guns  roared  like  bulls. 
But  here  the  men  lay  in  their  shelters  and  nib 
bled  at  their  foes  like  mice. 

On  second  thought  I  beg  to  withdraw  the 
[58] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


latter  simile.  These  men  were  not  so  much  like 
mice  as  they  were  like  moles.  For  they  grubbed 
in  the  earth,  as  moles  do,  eating  and  sleeping, 
living  and  dying  down  in  their  mud  burrows. 
Only,  moles  keep  their  fur  tidied  and  fine,  while 
these  men  were  coated  and  clogged  with  the 
tough  clayey  substance  in  which  they  wallowed. 
It  was  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  keep  their 
rifles  in  cleansed  working  order. 

Over  in  the  German  trench  a  slim  Saxon 
youth  was  squatted,  ankle-deep  in  cold  yellow 
water.  At  intervals  he  climbed  into  a  small 
scarp  in  the  wall  of  the  trench,  a  kind  of  niche 
just  large  enough  to  hold  his  body,  and  kneeling 
there,  with  his  head  tucked  down  and  his 
shoulders  drawn  in,  he  swapped  shots  with  a 
Frenchman  in  the  woods  slightly  beneath  and 
directly  in  front  of  him.  Neither  of  them  ever 
saw  the  other.  Each  in  his  firing  was  guided 
by  the  smack  of  his  enemy's  gun  and  the  tiny 
puff  of  white  smoke  which  marked  its  discharge; 
each  knowing  in  a  general  way  only  the  ap 
proximate  location  of  the  man  he  coveted  to 
kill,  for  after  an  exchange  of  shots  both  would 
shift,  the  German  to  another  scarp,  the  French 
man  to  another  tangle  of  felled  boughs.  There 
was  nothing  particularly  personal,  nothing  espe 
cially  hateful  or  passionate  in  the  present  ambi 
tion  of  either.  It  was  merely  the  job  in  hand. 

As  between  these  two — the  Frenchman  and 
the  German — there  was,  excusing  the  differ- 
ences  of  language  and  religion,  no  great  amount 
[59] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


of  distinction  to  be  drawn.  Temperamentally 
they  were  of  much  the  same  cast.  Each  in  his 
separate  small  sphere  of  endeavour  had  been  a 
reasonably  law-abiding,  reasonably  industrious, 
fairly  useful  individual,  until  somebody  else, 
sitting  in  a  high  place,  had  willed  it  for  him  that 
he  should  put  by  whatsoever  task  he  might  be 
concerned  with  and  engage  in  this  business  of 
gunning  for  his  fellow-man. 

Their  uniforms,  to  be  sure,  differed  in  cut  and 
colour,  or  had  so  differed  until  the  mud  of  Cham 
pagne  had  made  them  of  a  pattern  together. 
The  German  soldier's  helmet  had  a  sharp  spike 
set  in  it;  the  Frenchman's  cap  had  a  flattened 
top.  Also  the  German  carried  his  name  and 
number  in  a  small  leather  pouch  which  hung  on 
a  thong  about  his  neck  and  lay  snugly  against 
the  chilled  skin  of  his  breast  under  his  shirt, 
whereas  the  Frenchman  wore  his  name  and  his 
number  on  a  small  brass  token  that  was  made 
fast  to  a  slender  wire  bracelet  riveted  about  his 
left  wrist. 

Concerning  these  methods  of  marking  men 
there  had  been  argument  from  time  to  time, 
the  German  authorities  contending  that  their 
system  is  the  better  of  the  two.  For  proof  of 
the  claim  they  point  out  that  in  the  case  of  a 
Frenchman  an  arm  may  be  torn  away,  bodily 
carrying  the  bracelet  and  the  tag  with  it,  where 
as  as  regards  a  German,  he  may  be  shot  in  two 
and  yet  retain  his  identification  label  since  it  is 
not  so  very  often  that  the  head  is  entirely  dis- 
[60] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

severed  from  the  trunk.  Here  again,  as  in 
many  other  details,  they  contend  German  effi 
ciency  maintains  its  superiority  over  all.  On 
both  sides  the  matter  is  discussed  dispassion 
ately,  just  as  the  toxic  properties  of  various 
makes  of  poisonous  gases  are  discussed,  or 
the  rending  powers  of  shrapnel  upon  human 
flesh. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Ger 
man  climbed  up  into  his  favourite  scarp  once 
more.  Hoping  to  draw  his  opponent's  fire,  he 
jerked  his  head  up  into  sight  for  half  a  second, 
then  jerked  it  down  again.  The  trick  worked; 
the  Frenchman  fired,  but  fired  high.  The  Ger 
man  shoved  his  gun  barrel  out  between  two 
clods,  shut  both  eyes — for  he  was  by  no  means 
a  clever  marksman — and  pumped  a  shot  back 
in  reply.  The  bullet  from  his  rifle,  which  was  a 
long,  sharp-nosed,  steel-jacketed  bullet,  devised 
in  accordance  with  the  most  scientific  experi 
ments,  found  its  billet.  It  struck  the  French 
man  as  he  lay  belly  downward  on  the  earth  with 
his  gunstock  against  his  cheek.  It  removed 
two  fingers  of  the  Frenchman's  right  hand, 
three  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  tore  away  his 
lower  jaw,  beard  and  all,  and  passed  out  at  the 
back  of  his  neck,  taking  splintered  fragments  of 
his  spinal  processes  with  it.  He  turned  over 
on  his  back,  flapping  with  his  arms  and  legs, 
threshing  about  in  the  wet  leaves  and  in  the 
mud,  making  grotesque  bubbling  sounds  down 

in  his  throat. 

[61] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


Pretty  soon  after  that  twilight  came  on  and 
the  rifle  firing  slackened.  The  Saxon  youth, 
never  knowing  he  had  killed  his  enemy,  called 
it  a  day  and  knocked  off.  He  hunkered  down 
in  the  slime  to  eat  a  tallowy  stew  of  bull  meat 
and  barley  from  a  metal  pannikin.  It  was 
nourishing  enough,  this  mess  was,  but  it  had  the 
aspect  of  swill.  Having  eaten,  he  immediately 
thereafter  crawled,  in  his  wet  clothes  and  soaked 
boots,  into  a  sort  of  dugout  hollowed  in  the 
wall  of  his  trench,  and  slept  there  with  four  of 
his  comrades  on  a  bed  of  mouldy,  damp  rye 
straw.  While  they  slept  the  vermin  travelled 
from  one  to  another  of  them,  making  discrim 
inative  choice  of  which  body  to  bite. 

Down  in  the  little  forest  below,  the  French 
man  presently  quit  flapping  and  quietly  bled  to 
death.  During  the  night  a  burial  party  of  his 
own  people  came  and  found  him  and  shovelled 
him  underground  where  he  lay.  But  first  the 
sergeant  in  command  of  the  squad  removed  the 
bangle  from  his  wrist.  In  due  course  of  time, 
therefore,  word  was  carried  back  and  back  by 
succeeding  stages  to  headquarters,  and  from 
there  on  to  Paris,  and  from  Paris  on  to  New 
York,  so  that  within  a  month's  time  or  a  little 
less  it  became  the  painful  duty  of  a  consular 
clerk  in  New  York  to  transmit  by  mail  to  the 
deceased's  next  of  kin,  a  sister,  the  intelligence, 
as  conveyed  in  the  official  notification,  that  her 
brother,  Paul  Gaston  Michel  Misereux,  was 

heroically  dead  on  the  Field  of  Honour. 

[62] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


For  the  repose  of  their  brother's  spirit  they 
had  a  mass  said  at  the  little  French  Catholic 
Church  where  they  worshipped,  and  in  his  mem 
ory  candles  burned  upon  the  altar.  Out  of  a 
length  of  cheap  sleazy  stuff  they  made  a  mourn 
ing  frock  for  Helene.  Wearing  it,  her  face 
seemed  whiter  than  ever  and  the  two  red  spots 
in  her  cheeks  seemed  redder.  Marie  had  the 
black  frock,  with  the  white  collars  and  cuffs, 
which  had  been  her  uniform  as  a  saleswoman 
in  the  place  on  lower  Sixth  Avenue;  she  wore 
that  as  she  hunted  for  work.  Regardless  of 
their  sorrow,  the  hunt  must  go  on.  It  went 
on,  and  was  a  vain  quest.  From  much  weeping 
her  eyes  were  swollen  and  puffy  and  her  face 
was  drawn  out  of  all  comeliness.  Even  though 
through  merciful  forbearance  each  forbore  to 
tell  her  so,  none  of  those  to  whom  she  applied 
for  work  cared  to  hire  so  homely  appearing  a 
serving  woman.  In  another  week,  or  at  most 
two,  they  would  be  scraping  the  bottom  of  their 
savings  account. 

Before  this  they  had  lived  on  scanty  rations, 
wasting  never  a  crumb.  Now  they  trimmed  the 
food  allowance  still  finer.  It  may  have  been 
the  lack  of  sufficient  nourishment  that  caused 
Helene  to  drop  down  in  a  faint  on  the  floor  of 
the  tiny  kitchen  one  evening  in  the  middle  of 
the  second  week  following  the  receipt  of  the 
news  from  the  consul's  office.  As  Marie  bent 
to  raise  her  head  in  her  arms,  a  little  stream  of 
blood  began  to  run  from  one  corner  of  Helene's 
[63] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


mouth.  For  some  time  after  she  recovered 
consciousness  and  had  opened  her  eyes  the 
little  trickle  of  blood  continued,  and  Marie, 
sitting  beside  her,  wiped  it  away  as  fast  as  it 
oozed  out  between  her  lips.  The  younger  girl 
appeared  to  suffer  no  pain,  but  was  very  weak. 
Marie  got  her  undressed  and  into  her  bed  in  the 
small  middle  room.  Then  she  ran  downstairs 
to  the  basement  to  find  out  from  the  caretaker 
where  the  nearest  doctor  was  to  be  found. 

It  seemed  there  was  one  only  two  doors  away. 
He  came  presently,  a  testy  man  of  sixty  who 
was  lame.  One  of  his  legs  was  inches  shorter 
than  its  mate.  He  lived  in  a  tenement  himself 
and  his  practice  was  among  tenement  dwellers, 
and  he  was  underpaid  and  overworked  and  had 
trouble  enough  sometimes  to  make  both  ends 
meet.  He  grew  shorter  of  breath  and  of  dis 
position  at  every  step  as  he  wallowed  up  the 
stairs,  Marie  going  ahead  to  show  him  the  way 
to  the  rear  flat  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Wheez 
ing  until  the  sound  of  his  breathing  filled  the 
room,  he  sat  down  alongside  Helene,  and  while 
he  held  one  of  her  pipe-stem  wrists  in  his  hand 
he  asked  Marie  certain  questions.  Then  he 
told  Marie  to  go  into  the  front  room  and  wait 
for  him  there. 

In  ten  minutes  or  less  he  limped  in  to  her 
where  she  sat  with  her  hands  clenched  between 
her  knees  and  her  eyes  big  and  rounded  with 
apprehension.  He  thought  he  closed  the  inter- 
vening  door  behind  him,  but  the  latch  failed  to 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


catch  in  the  slot  and  it  swung  ajar  for  a  space 
of  two  or  three  inches.  Neither  of  them  took 
note  of  this. 

"She's  quiet  now,"  he  said:  "the  hemorrhage 
is  checked.  I  took  a  sample  of  her  blood.  I'll 
make  a  blood  test  to-morrow  morning.  How 
long  has  this  been  going  on — this  cough?" 

A  good  long  time,  Marie  told  him — several 
months.  She  went  on,  in  her  broken  English, 
to  explain:  "We  thought  it  was  but  a  bad  cold, 
that  soon  she  would  be  well " 

He  broke  in  on  her  impatiently: 

"That's  what  you  said  before.  That's  no 
excuse."  He  looked  about  him.  "How  many 
are  there  of  you  living  here — just  you  two?" 

"We  are  quite  alone,"  she  told  him.  "We 
had  also  a  brother,  but — but  he  now  is  dead." 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  tell  him  how  the 
brother  had  died,  or  when. 

"What's  your  business?"  he  demanded. 
Then  as  she  seemed  not  to  get  his  intent,  he 
added: 

"Can't  you  understand  plain  English?  What 
do  you  do  for  a  living?" 

"Your  pardon,  doctor;  I  am  a  milliner." 

"And  this  other  girl — your  sister — she's  been 
staying  at  home  and  doing  the  housekeeping, 
you  said?" 

She  nodded.    For  a  moment  there  was  silence, 

she  still  seated,  he  before  her  balancing  himself 

on  the  longer  leg  of  the  two  and  on  his  heavy 

cane.     "I'll  make  a  blood  test  in  the  morning," 

[65] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


he  said  at  length,  repeating  what  he  had  said  a 
moment  before. 

"Doctor,"  said  Marie,  "tell  me,  please,  the 
truth.  My  sister — is  she  then  so  ill?" 

"111?"  he  burst  out  at  her  irritably.  "111? 
I  should  say  she  is  ill.  She's  got  tuberculosis, 
if  you  know  what  that  means — consumption." 

She  sucked  her  breath  in  sharply.  Her  next 
question  came  slowly:  "What  is  there  then  to 
do?" 

"Well,  she  couldn't  last  long  here — that's 
dead  certain.  You've  got  to  get  her  away  from 
here.  You've  got  to  get  her  up  in*o  the  North 
Woods,  in  the  mountains — Saranac  or  some 
place  like  that — in  a  sanitarium  or  an  invalids* 
camp  where  she  can  have  the  right  kind  of 
treatment.  Then  she'll  have  a  chance." 

By  a  chance  he  meant  that  with  proper  care 
the  sick  girl  might  live  for  three  months  or  for 
four,  or  at  the  outside  for  six.  The  case  was  as 
good  as  hopeless  now;  he  knew  that.  Still  his 
duty  was  to  see  that  his  patients'  lives  were  pro 
longed — if  possible. 

"These  mountains,  I  do  not  know  them.  We 
are  strangers  in  this  country." 

"I'll  find  out  about  a  place  where  you  can  get 
her  in,"  he  volunteered.  "I'll  bring  you  the  in 
formation  in  the  morning — names  and  addresses 
and  everything.  Somebody'll  have  to  go  up 
there  with  her — you,  I  guess — and  get  her 
settled.  She's  in  no  shape  to  be  travelling 
alone.  Then  you  can  leave  her  there  and 
[66] 


FIELD      OF      HONOR 

arrange  to  send  up  so  much  a  week  to  pay  for 
her  keep  and  the  treatment  and  all.  Oh,  yes 
— and  until  we  get  her  away  from  here  you'll 
have  to  lay  off  from  your  work  and  stay  with 
her,  or  else  hire  somebody  to  stay  with  her. 
She  mustn't  be  left  alone  for  long  at  a  time — 
she's  too  sick  for  that.  Something  might  hap 
pen  .  Understand  ? ' ' 

"And  all  this — it  will  cost  much  money 
perhaps?" 

The  cripple  misread  the  note  in  her  voice  as 
she  asked  him  this.  This  flat  now,  it  was  in 
finitely  cleaner  than  the  abodes  of  nine-tenths 
of  those  among  whom  he  was  called  to  minister. 
To  his  man's  eyes  the  furnishings,  considering 
the  neighbourhood,  appeared  almost  luxurious. 
That  bed  yonder  against  the  wall  was  very  much 
whiter  and  looked  very  much  softer  than  the 
one  upon  which  he  slept.  And  the  woman 
herself  was  well  clad.  He  had  no  patience  with 
these  scrimping,  stingy  foreigners — thank  God 
he  was  himself  native-born — these  cheap,  penu 
rious  aliens  who  would  haggle  over  pennies  when 
a  life  was  the  stake.  And  there  was  no  patience 
in  his  uplifted,  rumbling  voice  as  he  answered 
her: 

"Say,  you  don't  want  your  sister  to  be  a 
pauper  patient,  do  you?  If  you  do,  just  say  so 
and  I'll  notify  the  department  and  they'll  put 
her  in  a  charity  institution.  She'd  last  just 
about  a  week  there.  Is  that  your  idea? — if  it 

is,  say  so!" 

[67] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"No,  no,  no,"  she  said,  "not  charity — not  for 
my  sister." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  he  said,  a  little  molli 
fied.  "All  right  then,  I'll  write  a  letter  to  the 
sanitarium  people;  they  ought  to  make  you  a 
special  rate.  Oh,  it'll  cost  you  twenty-five  dol 
lars  a  week  maybe — say,  at  the  outside,  thirty 
dollars  a  week.  And  that'll  be  cheap  enough, 
figuring  in  the  food  she'll  have  to  have  and  the 
care  and  the  nursing  and  all.  Then,  of  course, 
there'll  be  your  railroad  tickets  on  top  of  that. 
You'd  better  have  some  ready  money  on  hand 
so  we  can  get  her  shipped  out  of  here  before 
it's  too — Well,  before  many  days  anyhow." 

She  nodded. 

"I  shall  have  the  money,"  she  promised. 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "then  you'd  better 
hand  me  two  dollars  now.  That's  the  price  of 
my  call.  I  don't  figure  on  charging  you  for 
making  the  blood  test.  And  the  information 
about  the  sanitarium  and  the  letter  I'm  going 
to  write — I'll  throw  all  that  in  too." 

She  paid  him  his  fee  from  a  small  handbag. 
At  the  hall  door  he  paused  on  his  stumping  way 
out. 

"I  think  she'll  be  all  right  for  to-night— I 
gave  her  something,"  he  said  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb  toward  the  middle  room.  "If  you  just 
let  her  stay  quiet  that'll  be  the  best  thing  for 
her.  But  you'd  better  run  in  my  place  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning  and  tell  me  how  she 
passed  the  night.  Good  night." 
[68] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

"Good  night,  doctor — and  we  thank  you!" 
He  went  clumping  down  the  steps,  cursing 
the  darkness  of  the  stairwell  and  the  steep  pitch 
of  the  stairs.  Before  the  sound  of  his  fumbling 
feet  had  quite  died  away  Marie,  left  alone,  had 
made  up  her  mind  as  to  a  certain  course.  In 
so  short  a  time  as  that  had  the  definite  resolu 
tion  come  to  her.  And  as  she  still  sat  there,  in 
an  attitude  of  listening,  Helene,  in  the  middle 
room,  dragged  herself  up  from  her  knees  where 
she  had  been  crouched  at  the  slitted  door  be 
tween.  She  had  heard  all  or  nearly  all  the 
gruff  lame  doctor  said.  Indeed,  she  had  sensed 
the  truth  for  herself  before  she  heard  him  speak 
it.  What  he  told  her  sister  was  no  news  to 
the  eavesdropper;  merely  it  was  confirmation 
of  a  thing  she  already  knew.  Once  up  on  her 
bare  feet,  she  got  across  the  floor  and  into  her 
bed,  and  put  her  head  on  the  pillow  and  closed 
her  eyes,  counterfeiting  sleep.  In  her  mind, 
too,  a  plan  had  formed. 

It  was  only  a  minute  or  two  after  this  that 
Marie  came  silently  to  the  door  and  peered  in, 
looking  and  listening.  She  heard  the  regular 
sound  of  the  sick  girl's  breathing.  By  the  light 
of  the  gas  that  was  turned  down  low  she  saw, 
or  thought  she  saw,  that  Helene  was  asleep. 
She  closed  the  door  very  softly.  She  freshened 
her  frock  with  a  crisp  collarband  and  with  crisp 
wristbands.  She  clasped  about  her  neck  a 
small  gold  chain  and  she  put  on  her  head  her 
small,  neat  black  hat.  And  then  this  girl,  who 
[69] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


meant  to  defile  her  body,  knelt  alongside  her 
bed  and  prayed  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  keep  her 
soul  clean. 

With  her  handbag  on  her  arm  she  passed  out 
into  the  hall.  Across  the  hall  a  Jewish  family 
lived — by  name,  the  Levinski  family — consist 
ing  of  a  father  who  was  a  push-cart  peddler,  a 
gross  and  slattern  mother  who  was  continually 
occupied  with  the  duties  of  being  a  mother,  and 
any  number  of  small  Levinskis.  In  answer  to 
her  knock  at  their  door,  Mrs.  Levinski  came,  a 
shapeless,  vast  shape  in  her  night  dress,  bring 
ing  with  her  across  the  threshold  strong  smells 
of  stale  garlic,  soiled  flannel  and  cold  fried  carp. 
Marie  had  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  this 
neighbour  of  hers  and  no  more. 

"My  sister,  she  is  sick,"  she  told  Mrs.  Le 
vinski.  "And  I  must  go  out.  Please,  will  you 
listen?  If  she  should  awake  and  call  out  for 
me,  you  will  please  to  tell  her  I  am  gone  but 
soon  will  be  back  again.  If  you  please?  " 

Mrs.  Levinski  said  she  would,  and  to  show 
she  meant  it  opened  wide  her  door  before  she 
returned  to  her  household  duties. 

For  November  the  weather  was  warm,  but  it 
was  damp  and  would  be  damper.  A  fine  drizzle 
was  falling  as  Marie  Misereux  came  to  the  lower 
hallway  entrance  and  looked  out  into  the  night; 
and  East  Thirteenth  Street,  which  is  never  en 
tirely  empty,  was  almost  empty.  She  hesi 
tated  a  moment,  with  her  left  hand  clenched 
tight  against  her  breast,  and  then  stepped  out, 
[70] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


heading  westward.  At  the  first  avenue  cross 
ing  she  came  upon  a  man,  a  fairly  well-dressed 
man,  who  stood  below  the  stoop  of  a  private 
house  that  had  been  converted  into  some  sort 
of  club,  as  if  undecided  in  his  own  mind  whether 
to  go  in  or  to  stay  out.  She  walked  straight 
up  to  him. 

"Will  you  go  with  me,  m'sieur?"  she  said. 

He  peered  at  her  from  under  his  hatbrim. 
Almost  over  them  was  a  street  lamp.  By  its 
light  he  saw  that  her  face  was  dead  white;  that 
neither  her  lips  nor  her  cheeks  were  daubed 
with  cosmetics,  and  that  her  lips  were  not 
twisted  into  the  pitiable,  painted  smile  of  the 
streetwalker.  Against  the  smooth  fulness  of 
her  dress  her  knotted  left  hand  made  a  hard, 
white  clump.  Her  breasts,  he  saw,  heaved  up 
and  down  as  though  she  had  been  running  and 
her  breath  came  out  between  her  teeth  with  a 
whistling  sound.  Altogether  she  seemed  most 
oddly  dressed  and  most  oddly  mannered  for 
the  part  she  played. 

"You  want  me  to  go  with  you?"  he  asked, 
half  incredulously,  half  suspiciously,  still  star 
ing  hard. 

"If — if  you  will  be  so  good." 

"Do  you  need  the  money  that  bad?" 

"Assuredly,  m'sieur,"  she  said  with  a  simple, 
desperate  directness .  * '  Why  else  would  I  asky  ou  ? ' ' 

"Say,"  he  said  almost  roughly,  "you  better 
go  on  home.  I  don't  believe  you  belong  on  the 

streets.  Here!" 

[71] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


He  drew  something  that  was  small  and  crump- 
ly  from  a  waistcoat  pocket,  and  drawing  a  step 
nearer  to  her  he  shoved  it  between  two  of  the 
fingers  of  her  right  hand. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "you  take  that  and 
hustle  on  back  home." 

He  laughed,  then,  shamefacedly  and  in  a 
forced  sort  of  way,  as  though  embarrassed  by 
his  own  generosity,  and  then  he  turned  and 
went  quickly  up  the  steps  and  into  the  club 
house. 

She  looked  at  what  he  had  given  her.  It  was 
a  folded  dollar  bill.  As  though  it  had  been 
nasty  to  the  touch,  she  dropped  it  and  rubbed 
her  hand  upon  her  frock,  as  if  to  cleanse  it  of  a 
stain.  Then,  in  the  same  instant  nearly,  she 
stooped  down  and  picked  up  the  bill  from  the 
dirty  pavement  and  kissed  it  and  opened  her 
black  handbag.  Except  for  a  few  cents  in 
change,  the  bag  was  empty.  Except  for  those 
few  cents  and  a  sum  of  less  than  ten  dollars  yet 
remaining  in  the  savings  bank,  the  two  dollars 
she  had  given  the  lame  doctor  was  all  the  money 
she  had  in  the  world.  She  tucked  the  bill  up 
in  still  smaller  compass  and  put  it  in  the  bag. 
She  had  made  the  start  for  the  fund  she  meant 
to  have.  It  was  not  charity.  In  the  sweat  of 
her  agonized  soul  she  had  earned  it. 

She  crossed  over  the  first  bisecting  avenue  to 

the  westward,  and  the  second;  she  passed  a  few 

pedestrians,  among  them  being  a  policeman  try- 

ing  door  latches,  a  drunken  man  whose  body 

[72] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

swayed  and  whose  legs  wove  queer  patterns  as 
he  walked,  and  half  a  dozen  pale,  bearded  men 
who  spoke  Yiddish  and  gestured  volubly  with 
their  hands  as  they  went  by  in  a  group.  At 
Third  Avenue  she  turned  north,  finding  the 
pavements  more  thickly  populated,  and  just 
after  she  came  to  where  Fourteenth  Street 
crosses  she  saw  a  heavily  built,  well-dressed 
man  in  a  light  overcoat,  coming  toward  her  at 
a  deliberative,  dawdling  gait.  She  put  herself 
directly  in  his  path.  He  checked  his  pace  to 
avoid  a  collision  and  looked  at  her  speculatively, 
with  one  hand  fingering  his  moustache. 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  she  said,  repeating 
the  invitation  she  had  used  before. 

"Where  to?"  he  said,  showing  interest. 

"WThere  you  please,"  she  said  in  her  halting 
speech. 

"You're  on,"  he  said.  He  fell  in  alongside 
her,  facing  her  about  and  slipping  a  hand  well 
inside  the  crook  of  her  right  arm. 

"You — you  will  go  with  me?"  she  asked. 
Suddenly  her  body  was  in  a  tremble. 

"No,  sister,"  he  stated  grimly,  "I  ain't  goin* 
with  you  but  you're  sure  goin'  with  me."  And 
as  he  said  it  he  tightened  his  grip  upon  her 
forearm. 

He  had  need  to  say  no  more.  She  knew  what 
had  happened.  She  had  not  spent  two  years 
and  better  in  a  New  York  tenement  without 
learning  that  there  were  men  of  the  police — 
detectives  they  called  them  in  English — who 
[73] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


wore  no  uniforms  but  went  about  their  work 
apparelled  as  ordinary  citizens.  She  was  ar 
rested,  that  was  plain  enough,  and  she  under 
stood  full  well  for  what  she  had  been  arrested. 
She  made  no  outcry,  offered  no  defence,  broke 
forth  into  no  plea  for  release.  Indeed  her 
thought  for  the  moment  was  all  for  her  half- 
sister  and  not  for  herself.  So  she  said  nothing 
as  he  steered  her  swiftly  along. 

At  a  street  light  where  a  patrol  telephone  box 
of  iron  was  bolted  to  the  iron  post  the  plain- 
clothes  man  slowed  up.  Then  he  changed  his 
mind. 

"Guess  I  won't  call  the  wagon,"  he  said.  "I 
happen  to  know  it's  out.  It  ain't  far.  You 
and  me'll  walk  and  take  the  air."  He  turned 
with  her  westward  through  the  cross  street. 
Then,  struck  by  her  silence,  he  asked  a  question : 

"A  Frenchy,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  told  him.  "I  am  French.  Where 
— where  are  you  taking  me,  m'sieur?  Is  it  to 
the  prison — the  station  house?" 

"Quit  your  kiddin',"  he  said  mockingly.  "I 
s'pose  you  don't  know  where  we're  headin'? 
Night  court  for  yours  —  Jefferson  Market. 
Right  over  here  across  town." 

"They  will  not  keep  me  there  long?  They 
will  permit  me  to  go  if  I  pay  a  fine,  eh?  A  small 
fine,  eh?  That  is  all  they  will  do  to  me,  is  it 
not  so?" 

He  grunted  derisively.  "Playin'  ignorant, 
huh?  I  s'pose  you're  goin'  to  tell  me  now 
[74] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


you  ain't  never  been  up  in  the  night  court 
before?" 

"No,  no,  m'sieur,  never — I  swear  it  to  you. 
Never  have  I  been — been  like  this  before." 

"That's  what  they  all  say.  Well,  if  you  can 
prove  it — if  you  ain't  got  any  record  of  previous 
complaints  standin'  agin'  you,  and  your  ringer 
prints  don't  give  you  away — you'll  get  off  pretty 
light,  maybe,  but  not  with  a  fine.  I  guess  the 
magistrate'll  give  you  a  bit  over  on  the  Island 
— maybe  thirty  days,  maybe  sixty.  Depends 
on  how  he's  feelin'  to-night." 

"The  Island?" 

"Sure,  Blackwell's  Island.  A  month  over 
there  won't  do  you  no  harm." 

"I  cannot — you  must  not  take  me,"  she 
broke  out  passionately  now.  "For  thirty  days? 
Oh,  no,  no,  m'sieur!" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes!"  He  was  mimicking  her 
tone.  "I  guess  you  can  stand  doin'  your  thirty 
days  if  the  rest  of  these  cruisers  can.  If  you 
should  turn  out  to  be  an  old  offender  it'd  likely 
be  six  months " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  With  a 
quick,  hard  jerk  she  broke  away  from  him  and 
turned  and  ran  back  the  way  she  had  come. 
She  dropped  her  handbag  and  her  foot  spurned 
it  into  the  gutter.  She  ran  straight,  her  head 
down,  like  a  hunted  thing  sorely  pressed.  Her 
snug  skirt  hampered  her  though.  With  long 
strides  the  detective  overtook  her.  She  fought 
him  off  silently,  desperately,  with  both  hands, 
[75] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

with  all  her  strength.  He  had  to  be  rough  with 
her — but  no  rougher  than  the  emergency  war 
ranted.  He  pressed  her  flat  up  against  a  build 
ing  and,  holding  her  fast  there  with  the  pressure 
of  his  left  arm  across  her  throat,  he  got  his  nip 
pers  out  of  his  pocket.  Another  second  or  two 
more  of  confused  movement  and  he  had  her 
helpless.  The  little  steel  curb  was  twined  tight 
about  her  right  wrist  below  the  rumpled  white 
cuff.  By  a  twist  of  the  handles  which  he  held 
gripped  in  his  palm  he  could  break  the  skin. 
Two  twists  would  dislocate  the  wrist  bone.  A 
strong  man  doesn't  fight  long  after  the  links  of 
the  nippers  start  biting  into  his  flesh. 

"Now,  then,"  he  grunted  triumphantly,  jerk 
ing  her  out  alongside  him,  "I  guess  you'll  trot 
along  without  balkin'.  I  was  goin'  to  treat  you 
nice  but  you  wouldn't  behave,  would  you? 
Come  on  now  and  be  good." 

He  glanced  backward  over  his  shoulder. 
Three  or  four  men  and  boys,  witnesses  to  the 
flight  and  to  the  recapture,  were  tagging  along 
behind  them. 

"Beat  it,  you,"  he  ordered.  Then  as  they 
hesitated:  "Beat  it  now,  or  I'll  be  runnin'  some 
body  else  in."  They  fell  back,  following  at  a 
safer  distance. 

He  had  led  his  prisoner  along  for  almost  a 
block  before  he  was  moved  to  address  her  again : 

"And  you  thought  you  could  make  your 
getaway  from  me?  Not  a  chance!  Say,  what 
do  you  want  to  act  that  way  for,  makin'  it 
[76] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

harder  for  both  of  us?  Say,  on  the  level  now, 
ain't  you  never  been  pinched  before?" 

She  thought  he  meant  the  pressure  of  the 
steel  links  on  her  wrist. 

"It  is  not  that,"  she  said,  bending  the  curbed 
hand  upward.  "That  I  do  not  think  of.  It  is 
of  my  sister,  my  sister  Helene,  that  I  think." 
Her  voice  for  the  first  time  broke  and  shivered. 

"What  about  your  sister?"  There  was  some 
thing  of  curiosity  but  more  of  incredulity  in  his 
question. 

"She  is  ill,  m'sieur,  very  ill,  and  she  is  alone. 
There  is  no  one  but  me  now.  My  brother — he 
is  dead.  It  is  for  her  that  I  have  done — this — 
this  thing  to-night.  If  I  do  not  return  to  her — 
if  you  do  not  let  me  go  back — she  will  die, 
m'sieur.  I  tell  you  she  will  die." 

If  she  was  acting  it  was  good  acting.  Half 
convinced  against  his  will  of  her  sincerity,  and 
half  doubtfully,  he  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Where  do  you  live — is  it  far  from  here?" 

"It  is  in  this  street,  m'sieur.  It  is  not  far." 
He  could  feel  her  arm  quivering  in  the  grip  of 
his  nippers. 

"Maybe  I'm  makin'  a  sucker  of  myself,"  he 
said  dubiously,  defining  the  diagnosis  as  much 
to  himself  as  to  her.  "But  if  it  ain't  far  I 
might  walk  you  back  there  and  give  this  here 
sister  of  yours  the  once-over.  And  then  if  you 
ain't  lyin'  we'll  see " 

"Must  I  go  so?"  She  lifted  her  hand  up, 

indicating  her  meaning. 

[77] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"You  bet  your  life  you're  goin'  that  way  or 
not  at  all.  I'm  takin'  no  more  chances  with 

you." 

"But  it  would  kill  her — she  would  die  to  see 
me  so.  She  must  not  know  I  have  done  this 

thing,   m'sieur.     She  must  not  see  this 

The  little  chain  rattled. 

"Come  on,"  he  ordered  in  a  tone  of  finality. 
"I  thought  that  sick  sister  gag  was  old  stuff, 
but  I  was  goin'  to  give  you  a  show  to  make 
good " 

"But  I  swear— 

"Save  your  breath!  Save  your  breath !  Tell 
your  spiel  to  the  judge.  Maybe  he'll  listen. 
I'm  through." 

They  were  almost  at  the  doors  of  the  squat 
and  ugly  building  which  the  Tenderloin  calls 
Jeff  Market  when  he  noticed  that  her  left  hand 
was  clutched  against  her  breast.  He  remem 
bered  then  she  had  held  that  hand  so  when  she 
first  spoke  to  him;  except  during  her  flight  and 
the  little  struggle  after  he  ran  her  down,  she 
must  have  been  holding  it  so  all  this  time. 

"What's  that  you've  got  hi  your  hand?"  he 
demanded  suspiciously,  and  with  a  practiced 
flip  of  the  nipper  handles  swung  her  round  so 
that  she  faced  him. 

"It  is  my  own,  m'sieur.    It  is — 

"Nix,  nix  with  that.  I  gotta  see.  Open  up 
them  fingers." 

She   opened   her   hand    slowly,    reluctantly. 
The  two  of  them  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  ele- 
[78] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

vated  structure  then,  close  up  alongside  a  pil 
lar,  and  he  had  to  peer  close  to  see  what  the 
object  might  be.  Having  seen  he  did  not  offer 
to  touch  it,  but  he  considered  his  prisoner  close 
ly,  taking  her  in  from  her  head  to  her  feet,  be 
fore  he  led  her  on  across  the  roadway  and  the 
pavement  and  in  at  one  of  the  doors  of  that 
odoursome  clearing  house  of  vice  and  misery, 
mercy  and  justice,  where  the  night  court  sits 
seven  nights  a  week. 

First,  though,  he  untwisted  the  disciplinary 
little  steel  chain  from  about  her  wrist.  The 
doorway  by  which  they  entered  gave  upon  the 
Tenth  Street  face  of  the  building  and  admitted 
them  into  a  maze  of  smelly  dim  corridors  and 
cross-halls  in  the  old  jail  wing  directly  beneath 
the  hideous  and  aborted  tower,  which  in  a  neigh 
bourhood  of  stark  architectural  offences  makes 
of  Jefferson  Market  courthouse  a  shrieking 
crime  against  good  looks  and  good  taste. 

The  inspector's  man  escorted  the  French  girl 
the  length  of  a  short  passage.  At  a  desk  which 
stood  just  inside  the  courtroom  door  he  detained 
her  while  a  uniformed  attendant  entered  her 
name  and  her  age,  which  she  gave  as  twenty- 
one,  and  her  house  number,  in  a  big  book  which 
before  now  has  been  Doomsday  Book  for  many 
a  poor  smutted  butterfly  of  the  sidewalks.  The 
detective,  standing  by,  took  special  note  of  the 
name  and  the  address  and,  for  his  own  purposes, 
wrote  them  both  down  on  a  scrap  of  card.  This 
formality  being  finished,  the  pair  crossed  the 
[79] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


half-filled  courtroom,  he  guiding  by  a  hand  on 
her  elbow,  she  obeying  with  a  numbed  and 
passive  docility,  to  where  there  is  a  barred-in 
space  like  an  oversized  training  den  for  wild 
animals.  This  cage  or  coop,  whichever  you 
might  choose  to  call  it,  has  a  whited  cement 
wall  for  its  back,  and  rows  of  close-set  rounded 
iron  bars  for  its  front  and  sides,  and  wooden 
benches  for  its  plenishings.  The  bars  run 
straight  up,  like  slender  black  shadows  caught 
and  frozen  into  solidity,  to  the  soiled  ceiling 
above;  they  are  braced  across  with  iron  hori 
zontals,  which  makes  the  pen  strong  enough  to 
hold  a  rhino.  Its  twin  stands  alongside  it, 
filling  the  remaining  space  at  the  far  side  of 
the  big  room.  In  the  old  days  one  pen  was 
meant  for  male  delinquents  and  one  for  female. 
But  now  the  night  court  for  men  holds  its  ses 
sions  in  a  different  part  of  town  and  only  women 
delinquents  are  brought  to  this  place.  It  may 
or  may  not  be  a  reflection  upon  our  happy 
civilisation — I  leave  that  point  for  the  sociolo 
gists  to  settle — but  it  is  a  fact  that  ninety  per 
cent  of  them  are  brought  here  charged  with  the 
same  thing. 

The  first  coop  held  perhaps  a  dozen  women 
and  girls.  One  of  them  was  quietly  weeping. 
The  others,  looking,  as  they  sat  on  one  of  the 
benches  in  their  more  or  less  draggled  finery, 
like  a  row  of  dishevelled  cage  birds  of  gay  plu 
mage,  maintained  attitudes  which  ranged  from 
the  highly  indifferent  to  the  excessively  defiant. 
[80] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

The  detective  unlatched  the  door,  which  was  of 
iron  wattles  too,  and  put  his  prisoner  inside. 

"You'll  have  to  stay  here  awhile,"  he  bade 
her.  His  tone  was  altered  from  that  which  he 
had  employed  toward  her  at  any  time  before. 
"Just  set  down  there  and  be  comfortable." 

But  she  did  not  sit.  She  drew  herself  close 
up  into  a  space  where  wall  and  wall,  meeting 
at  right  angles,  made  a  corner.  Her  cellmates 
eyed  her.  Being  inclined  to  believe  from  her 
garb  that  she  probably  was  a  shopgirl  caught 
pilfering,  none  of  them  offered  to  hail  her;  all  of 
them  continued,  though,  to  watch  her  curiously. 
As  he  closed  and  bolted  the  door  and  moved 
away  the  plain-clothes  man,  glancing  back, 
caught  a  fair  look  at  her  face  behind  the  iron 
uprights.  Her  big,  staring  eyes  reminded  him 
of  something,  some  creature,  he  had  seen  some 
where.  Later  he  remembered.  He  had  seen 
that  same  look  out  of  the  staring  eyes  of  ani 
mals,  lying  with  legs  bound  on  the  floor  of  a 
slaughterhouse. 

Following  this,  the  ordinary  procedure  for 
him  would  have  been  to  call  up  the  East  Twen 
ty-second  Street  station  house  by  telephone  and 
report  that,  having  made  an  arrest,  he  had  seen 
fit  to  bring  his  prisoner  direct  to  court;  then 
visit  the  complaint  clerk's  office  in  a  little 
cubby-hole  of  a  room,  and  there  swear  to  a  short 
affidavit  setting  forth  the  accusation  in  due 
form;  finally,  file  the  affidavit  with  the  magis 
trate's  clerk  and  stand  by  to  await  the  calling 
[81] 


LOCAL     COLOR 

of  that  particular  case.  Strangely  enough,  he 
did  none  of  these  things. 

Instead,  he  made  his  way  direct  to  the  mag 
istrate's  desk  inside  the  railixig  which  cut  the 
room  across  from  side  to  side.  The  pent,  close 
smell  of  the  place  was  fit  to  sicken  men  unused 
to  it.  It  commingled  those  odours  which  seem 
always  to  go  with  a  police  court — of  unwashed 
human  bodies,  of  iodoform,  of  stale  fumes  of 
alcohol,  of  cheap  rank  perfumery.  Petty  crime 
exhales  an  atmosphere  which  is  peculiarly  its 
own.  This  man  was  used  to  this  smell.  Smell 
ing  it  was  to  him  a  part  of  the  day's  work — the 
night's  work  rather. 

The  magistrate  upon  the  bench  was  a  young 
magistrate,  newly  appointed  by  the  mayor  to 
this  post.  Because  he  belonged  to  an  old  fam 
ily  and  because  his  sister  had  married  a  rich 
man  the  papers  loved  to  refer  to  him  as  the 
society  judge.  As  the  detective  came  up  he 
was  finishing  a  hearing  which  had  lasted  less 
than  three  minutes. 

"Any  previous  record  as  shown  by  the  finger 
prints  and  the  card  indexes?"  he  was  asking  of 
the  officer  complainant. 

"Three,  Your  Honour,"  answered  the  man 
glibly.  "Suspended  sentence  oncet,  thirty  days 
oncet,  thirty  days  oncet  again.  Probation 
officer's  report  shows  that  this  here  young 
woman — 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  the  magistrate;  "six 
months." 

[82] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


The  officer  and  the  woman  who  had  been  sen 
tenced  to  six  months  fell  back,  and  the  detective 
shoved  forward,  putting  his  arms  on  the  top  of 
the  edge  of  the  desk  to  bring  his  head  closer 
to  the  magistrate. 

"Your  Honour,"  he  began,  speaking  in  a  sort 
of  confidential  undertone,  "could  I  have  a  word 
with  you?" 

"Go  ahead,  Schwartzmann,"  said  the  magis 
trate,  bending  forward  to  hear. 

"Well,  Judge,  a  minute  ago  I  brought  a  girl 
in  here;  picked  her  up  at  Fourteenth  Street  and 
Thoid  Avenue  for  solicitin'.  So  far  as  that  goes 
it's  a  dead-open-and-shut  case.  She  come  up 
to  me  on  the  street  and  braced  me.  She  wasn't 
dressed  like  most  of  these  Thoid-A venue  cruis 
ers  dress  and  she's  sort  of  acted  as  if  she'd  never 
been  pinched  before — tried  to  give  me  an  argu 
ment  on  the  way  over.  Well,  that  didn't  get 
her  anywheres  with  me.  You  can't  never  tell 
when  one  of  them  dames  will  turn  out  in  a  new 
make-up,  but  somethin'  that  happened  when 
we  was  right  here  outside  the  door — somethin' 

I  seen  about  her — sort  of "  He  broke  off 

the  sentence  in  the  middle  and  started  again. 
"Well,  anyhow,  Your  Honour,  I  may  be  makin' 
a  sucker  of  myself,  but  I  didn't  swear  out  no 
affidavit  and  I  ain't  called  up  the  station  house 
even.  I  stuck  her  over  there  in  the  bull-pen 
and  then  I  come  straight  to  you." 

The  magistrate's  eyes  narrowed.  Thus  early 
in  his  experience  as  a  police  judge  he  had  learned 
[83] 


LOCAL     COLOR 

— and  with  abundant  cause — to  distrust  the 
motives  of  plain-clothes  men  grown  suddenly 
philanthropic.  Besides,  in  the  first  place,  this 
night  court  was  created  to  circumvent  the  un 
holy  partnership  of  the  bail-bond  shark  and  the 
police  pilot  fish. 

"Now  look  here,  Schwartzmann,"  he  said 
sharply,  "you  know  the  law — you  know  the 
routine  that  has  to  be  followed." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  agreed  Schwartzmann;  "and 
if  I've  made  a  break  I'm  willin'  to  stand  the 
gaff.  Maybe  I'm  makin'  a  sucker  of  myself, 
too,  just  like  I  said.  But,  Judge,  there  ain't 
no  great  harm  done  yet.  She's  there  in  that  pen 
and  you  know  she's  there  and  I  know  she's 
there." 

"Well,  what's  the  favour  you  want  to  ask  of 
me?"  demanded  His  Honour. 

"It's  like  this:  I  want  to  slip  over  to  the  ad 
dress  she  gave  me  and  see  if  she's  been  handin' 
me  the  right  steer  about  certain  things.  It 
ain't  so  far."  He  glanced  down  at  the  scribbled 
card  he  held  in  his  hand.  "I  can  get  over  there 
and  get  back  in  half  an  hour  at  the  outside. 
And  then  if  she's  been  tryin'  to  con  me  I'll  go 
through  with  it — I'll  press  the  charge  all  right." 
His  jaw  locked  grimly  on  the  thought  that  his 
professional  sagacity  was  on  test. 

"Well,  what  is  her  story?"  asked  the  mag 
istrate. 

"Judge,  to  tell  you  the  truth  it  ain't  her  story 
so  much  as  it's  somethin'  I  seen.  And  if  I'm 

[84] 


FIELD      OF      HONOR 

makin'  a  sucker  of  myself  I'd  rather  not  say 
too  much  about  that  yet." 

"Oh,  go  ahead,"  assented  the  magistrate, 
whose  name  was  Voris.  "There's  no  danger  of 
the  case  being  called  while  you're  gone,  because, 
as  I  understand  you,  there  isn't  any  case  to 
call.  Go  ahead,  but  remember  this  while  you're 
gone — I  don't  like  all  this  mystery.  I'm  going 
to  want  to  know  all  the  facts  before  I'm  done." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Schwartzmann,  get 
ting  himself  outside  the  railed  inclosure.  "I'll 
be  back  in  less'n  no  time,  Your  Honour." 

He  wasn't,  though.  Nearly  an  hour  passed 
before  an  attendant  brought  Magistrate  Voris 
word  that  Officer  Schwartzmann  craved  the 
privilege  of  seeing  His  Honour  alone  for  a  minute 
or  two  in  His  Honour's  private  chamber.  The 
magistrate  left  the  bench,  suspending  the  busi 
ness  of  the  night  temporarily,  and  went;  on  the 
way  he  was  mentally  fortifying  himself  to  be 
severe  enough  if  he  caught  a  plain-clothes  man 
trying  to  trifle  with  him. 

"Well,  Schwartzmann?"  he  said  shortly  as 
he  entered  the  room. 

"Judge,"  said  the  detective,  "the  woman 
wasn't  lyin'.  She  told  me  her  sister  was  sick 
alone  in  their  flat  without  nobody  to  look  after 
her  and  that  her  brother  was  dead.  I  don't 
know  about  the  brother — at  least  I  ain't  sure 
about  him — but  the  sister  was  sick.  Only  she 
ain't  sick  no  more — she's  dead." 

"Dead?    What  did  she  die  of?" 

[85] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"She  didn't  die  of  nothin' — she  killed  herself 
with  gas.  She  turned  the  gas  on  in  the  room 
where  she  was  sick  in  bed.  The  body  was  still 
warm  when  I  got  there.  I  gave  her  first  aid, 
but  she  was  gone  all  right.  She  wasn't  nothin' 
more  than  a  shell  anyhow — had  some  wastin' 
disease  from  the  looks  of  her;  and  I  judge  it 
didn't  take  but  a  few  whiffs  to  finish  her  off. 
I  called  in  the  officer  on  post,  name  of  Riordan, 
and  I  notified  the  coroner's  office  myself  over 
the  telephone,  and  they're  goin'  to  send  a  man 
up  there  inside  of  an  hour  or  so  to  take  charge 
of  the  case. 

"And  so,  after  that,  feelin'  a  sort  of  personal 
interest  in  the  whole  thing,  as  you  might  say, 
I  broke  the  rules  some  more.  When  I  found 
this  here  girl  dead  she  had  two  pieces  of  paper 
in  her  hand;  she'd  died  holdin'  to  'em.  One 
of  'em  was  a  letter  that  she'd  wrote  herself,  I 
guess,  and  the  other  must  'a'  been  a  letter 
from  somebody  else — kind  of  an  official-lookin' 
letter.  Both  of  'em  was  in  French.  I  don't 
know  exactly  why  I  done  it,  unless  it  was  I 
wanted  to  prove  somethin'  to  myself,  but  I 
brought  off  them  two  letters  with  me  and 
here  they  are,  sir.  I'm  hopin'  to  get 
your  court  interpreter  to  translate  'em  for 
me,  and  then  I  aim  to  rush  'em  back 
over  there  before  the  coroner's  physician 
gets  in,  and  put  'em  back  on  that  bed  where 
I  found  'em." 

"I  read  French — a  little,"  said  the  young 
[86] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 


magistrate.  "Suppose  you  let  me  have  a  look 
at  them  first." 

Schwartzmann  surrendered  them  and  the 
magistrate  read  them  through.  First  he  read 
the  pitiably  short,  pitiably  direct  farewell  lines 
the  suicide  had  written  to  her  half-sister  before 
she  turned  on  the  gas,  and  then  he  read  the 
briefly  regretful  letter  of  set  terms  of  condolence, 
which  a  clerk  in  a  consular  office  had  in  duty 
bound  transcribed.  Having  read  them  through, 
this  magistrate,  who  had  read  in  the  newspapers 
of  Liege  and  Louvain,  of  Mons  and  Charlevois, 
of  Ypres  and  Rheims,  of  the  Masurien  Lakes 
and  Poland  and  Eastern  Prussia  and  Western 
Flanders  and  Northern  France;  who  had  read 
also  the  casualty  reports  emanating  at  frequent 
intervals  from  half  a  dozen  war  offices,  reading 
the  one  as  matters  of  news  and  the  other,  until 
now,  as  lists  of  steadily  mounting  figures — he 
raised  his  head  and  in  his  heart  he  silently 
cursed  war  and  all  its  fruits.  And  next  day  he 
went  and  joined  a  league  for  national  pre 
paredness. 

"Schwartzmann,"  he  said  as  he  laid  the  pa 
pers  on  his  desk,  "I  guess  probably  your  pris 
oner  was  telling  the  whole  truth.  She  did  have 
a  brother  and  he  is  dead.  He  was  a  French 
soldier  and  he  died  about  a  month  or  six  weeks 
ago — on  the  Field  of  Honour,  the  letter  says. 
And  this  note  that  the  girl  left,  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  says.  It  says  that  she  heard  what  the 
doctor  said  about  her — there  must  have  been 
[87] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


a  doctor  in  to  see  her  some  time  this  evening — 
and  that  she  knows  she  can  never  get  well,  and 
that  they  are  about  out  of  money,  and  that  she 
is  afraid  Marie — Marie  is  the  sister  who's  in 
yonder  now,  I  suppose — will  do  something  des 
perate  to  get  money,  so  rather  than  be  a  burden 
on  her  sister  she  is  going  to  commit  a  mortal 
sin.  So  she  asks  God  to  forgive  her  and  let 
her  be  with  her  brother  Paul — he's  the  dead 
brother,  no  doubt — when  she  has  paid  for  her 
sin.  And  that  is  all  she  says  except  good-bye." 

He  paused  a  moment,  clearing  his  throat,  and 
when  he  went  on  he  spoke  aloud,  but  it  was  to 
himself  that  he  spoke  rather  than  to  the  detec 
tive:  "Field  of  Honour?  Not  one  but  two  out 
of  that  family  dead  on  the  Field  of  Honour,  by 
my  way  of  thinking.  Yes,  and  though  it's  a 
new  name  for  it,  I  guess  you  might  call  Four 
teenth  Street  and  Third  Avenue  a  Field  of 
Honour,  too,  and  not  be  so  very  far  wrong  for 
this  once.  What  a  hellish  thing  it  all  is!" 

"How's  that,  sir?"  asked  Schwartzmann. 
"I  didn't  quite  get  you."  He  had  taken  the 
two  papers  back  in  his  own  hands  and  was 
shuffling  them  absently. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  magistrate.  And  then 
almost  harshly:  "Well,  what  do  you  want  me 
to  do  about  the  woman  in  the  pen  yonder?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  other  slowly,  "I  was 

thinkin'  that  probably  you  wouldn't  care  to 

tell  her  what's  just  come  off  in  the  flat — at  least 

not  in  court.     And  I  know  I  don't  want  to 

[88] 


FIELD     OF      HONOR 

have  to  tell  her.  I  thought  maybe  if  you  could 
stretch  the  rules  so's  I  could  get  her  out  of 
here  without  havin'  to  make  a  regular  charge 
against  her  and  without  me  havin'  to  arraign 
her  in  the  regular  way " 

"Damn  the  rules!"  snapped  Voris  petulantly. 
"I'll  fix  them.  You  needn't  worry  about  that 
part  of  it.  Go  on!" 

"Well,  sir,  I  was  thinkin'  maybe  that  after 
I  found  somebody  to  take  these  letters  back 
where  they  belong,  I  could  take  her  on  home 
with  me — I  live  right  down  here  in  Greenwich 
Village — and  keep  her  there  for  the  night,  or 
anyhow  till  the  coroner's  physician  is  through 
with  what  he's  got  to  do,  and  I'd  ask  my  wife 
to  break  the  news  to  her  and  tell  her  about  it. 
A  woman  can  do  them  things  sometimes  better'n 
a  man  can.  So  that's  my  idea,  sir." 

"You're  willing  to  take  a  woman  into  your 
home  that  you  picked  up  for  streetwalking?" 

"  I'll  take  the  chance.  You  see,  Your  Honour, 
I  seen  somethin'  else — somethin'  I  ain't  men 
tioned — somethin'  I  don't  care  to  mention  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  the  other.  "I  suppose 
you'll  be  looking  up  the  newspaper  men  before 
you  go.  This  will  make  what  they  call  a  great 
heart-interest  story." 

"I  don't  figure  on  tellin'  the  reporters 
neither,"  mumbled  Schwartzmann,  as  though 
ashamed  of  his  own  forbearance. 

The  magistrate  found  the  detective's  right 
[89] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


hand  and  started  to  shake  it.  Then  he  dropped  it. 
You  might  have  thought  from  the  haste  with 
which  he  dropped  it  that  he  also  was  ashamed. 

"I'll  see  you  don't  get  into  any  trouble  with 
the  inspector,"  he  said.  Then  he  added:  "You 
know  of  course  that  this  brother  was  a  French 
soldier?" 

"Sure  I  know  it — you  told  me  so." 

"You're  German,  aren't  you?"  asked  Voris. 
"German  descent,  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  figure  as  that's  got  anythin'  to  do 
with  the  case,"  said  the  plain-clothes  man, 
bristling. 

"I  don't  either,  Schwartzmann,"  said  the 
magistrate.  "Now  you  go  ahead  and  get  that 
woman  out  of  this  hole." 

Schwartzmann  went.  She  was  where  he  had 
left  her;  she  was  huddled  up,  shrinking  in, 
against  the  bars,  and  as  he  unlatched  the  iron 
door  and  swung  it  in  and  beckoned  to  her  to 
come  out  from  behind  it,  he  saw,  as  she  came, 
that  her  eyes  looked  at  him  with  a  dumb,  ques 
tioning  misery  and  that  her  left  hand  was  still 
gripped  in  a  hard  knot  against  her  breast. 
He  knew  what  that  hand  held.  It  held  a  little, 
cheap,  carved  white  crucifix. 

I  see  by  the  papers  that  those  popularly  re 
puted  to  be  anointed  of  God,  who  are  prin 
cipally  in  charge  of  this  war,  are  graciously 
pleased  to  ordain  that  the  same  shall  go  on 

for  quite  some  time  yet. 

[90] 


CHAPTER  III 
THE    SMART    ALECK 


CAP'N  RUCK  FLITTER,   holding  his 
watch    in    the    approved    conductor's 
grip,  glanced  back  and  forth  the  short 
length  of  the  four-five  accommodation 
and  raised  his  free  hand  in  warning: 
"All  aboard!" 

From  almost  above  his  head  it  came: 
"If  you  can't  get  a  board  get  a  scantlin'!" 
.Clustered  at  the  White  or  shady  end  of  the 
station,  the  sovereign  Caucasians  of  Swango 
rocked  up  against  one  another  in  the  unbridled 
excess  of  their  merriment.  Farther  away,  at  the 
Coloured  or  sunny  end  of  the  platform,  the  as 
sembled  representatives  of  the  African  popula 
tion  guffawed  loudly,  though  respectfully.  To 
almost  any  one  having  the  gift  of  spontaneous 
repartee  it  might  have  occurred  to  suggest  the 
advisability  of  getting  a  plank  provided  you 
could  not  get  a  board.  It  took  Gash  Tuttle  to 
think  up  scantling. 

The  humourist  folded  his  elbows  on  the  ledge 
[91] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


of  the  window  and  leaned  his  head  and  shoulders 
out  of  the  car,  considering  his  people  whimsi 
cally,  yet  benignantly.  He  wore  attire  suitable 
for  travelling — a  dented-in  grey  felt  hat,  adher 
ing  perilously  to  the  rearmost  slope  of  his  scalp; 
a  mail-order  suit  of  light  tan,  with  slashed 
seams  and  rows  of  buttons  extending  up  the 
sleeves  almost  to  the  elbows;  a  hard-surfaced 
tie  of  pale  blue  satin;  a  lavender  shirt,  agreeably 
relieved  by  pink  longitudinal  stripings. 

Except  his  eyes,  which  rather  protruded,  and 
his  front  teeth,  which  undoubtedly  projected, 
all  his  features  were  in  a  state  of  active  retreat 
— only,  his  nose  retreated  one  way  and  his  chin 
the  other.  The  assurance  of  a  popular  idol  who 
knows  no  rival  was  in  his  pose  and  in  his  poise. 
Alexander  the  Great  had  that  look — if  we  may 
credit  the  likenesses  of  him  still  extant — and 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  had  it,  and  David  Garrick, 
to  quote  a  few  conspicuous  examples. 

Alone,  of  all  those  within  hearing,  Cap'n  Buck 
Fluter  did  not  laugh.  Indeed,  he  did  not  even 
grin. 

"All  right,  black  boy,"  he  said.  "Let's  go 
from  here!" 

The  porter  snatched  up  the  wooden  box  that 
rested  on  the  earth,  flung  it  on  the  car  platform 
and  projected  his  person  nimbly  after  it.  Cap'n 
Buck  swung  himself  up  the  step  with  one  hand 
on  the  rail.  The  engine  spat  out  a  mouthful  of 
hot  steam  and  the  wheels  began  to  turn. 

"Good-by,  my  honeys,  'cause  I'm  gone!" 
[92] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


called  out  Mr.  Tuttle,  and  he  waved  a  fawn- 
coloured  arm  in  adieu  to  his  courtiers,  black  and 
white.  "I'm  a-goin'  many  and  a-many  a  mile 
from  you.  Don't  take  in  no  bad  money  while 
your  popper's  away." 

The  station  agent,  in  black  calico  sleeve-pro 
tectors  and  celluloid  eyeshade,  stretched  the 
upper  half  of  his  body  out  the  cubby-hole  that 
served  him  for  an  office. 

"Oh,  you  Gash!"  he  called.  "Give  my  love 
to  all  the  ladies." 

The  two  groups  on  the  platform  waited,  all 
expectant  for  the  retort.  Instantly  it  sped  back 
to  them,  above  the  clacking  voice  of  the  train: 

"That's  all  you  ever  would  give  'em,  ain't 
it?" 

Mr.  Gip  Dismukes,  who  kept  the  livery  stable, 
slapped  Mr.  Gene  Brothers,  who  drove  the  bus, 
a  resounding  slap  on  the  back. 

"Ain't  he  jest  ez  quick  ez  a  flash?"  he  de 
manded  of  the  company  generally. 

The  station  agent  withdrew  himself  inside  his 
sanctum,  his  sides  heaving  to  his  mirthful  emo 
tions.  He  had  drawn  a  fire  acknowledged  to  be 
deadly  at  any  range,  but  he  was  satisfied.  The 
laugh  was  worth  the  wound. 

Through  the  favoured  section  traversed  by  the 
common  carrier  to  whose  care  genius  incarnate 
had  just  committed  his  precious  person  there  are 
two  kinds  of  towns — bus  towns  and  non-bus 
towns.  A  bus  town  lies  at  an  appreciable  dis- 
tance  from  the  railroad,  usually  with  a  hill  inter- 

[93] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


vening,  and  a  bus,  which  is  painted  yellow,  plies 
between  town  and  station.  But  a  non-bus  town 
is  a  town  that  has  for  its  civic  equator  the  tracks 
themselves.  The  station  forms  one  angle  of 
.the  public  square;  and,  within  plain  sight  and 
easy  walking  reach,  the  post  office  and  at  least 
two  general  stores  stand;  and  handily  near  by  is 
a  one-story  bank  built  of  a  stucco  composition 
purporting  to  represent  granite,  thus  signifying 
solidity  and  impregnability;  and  a  two-story 
hotel,  white,  with  green  blinds,  and  porches 
running  all  the  way  across  the  front;  also  hitch 
rails;  a  livery  stable;  and  a  Masonic  Hall. 

Swango  belonged  to  the  former  category.  It 
was  over  the  hill,  a  hot  and  dusty  eighth  of  a 
mile  away.  So,  having  watched  the  departing 
four-five  accommodation  until  it  diminished  to 
a  smudgy  dot  where  the  V  of  the  rails  melted 
together  and  finally  vanished,  the  assembled 
Swangoans  settled  back  in  postures  of  ease  to 
wait  for  the  up  train  due  at  three-eight,  but 
reported  two  hours  and  thirty  minutes  late. 
There  would  still  be  ample  time  after  it  came 
and  went  to  get  home  for  supper. 

The  contemptuous  travelling  man  who  once 
said  that  only  three  things  ever  happened  in 
Swango — morning,  afternoon  and  night — per 
petrated  a  libel,  for  he  wilfully  omitted  mention 
of  three  other  daily  events:  the  cannon-ball, 
tearing  through  without  stopping  in  the  early 
forenoon;  the  three-eight  up;  and  the  four-five 
down. 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


So  they  sat  and  waited;  but  a  spirit  of  depres 
sion,  almost  of  sadness,  affected  one  and  all.  It 
was  as  though  a  beaming  light  had  gone  out  of 
their  lives.  Ginger  Marable,  porter  and  runner 
of  the  Mansard  House,  voiced  the  common 
sentiment  of  both  races  as  he  lolled  on  a  baggage 
truck  in  the  sunshine,  with  his  cap  of  authority, 
crowned  by  a  lettered  tin  diadem,  shoved  far 
back  upon  his  woolly  skull. 

"Dat  Mistah  Gashney  Tuttle  he  sho  is  a 
quick  ketcher,"  stated  Ginger  with  a  soft 
chuckle.  "W'ite  an'  black — we  suttinly  will 
miss  Mistah  Tuttle  twell  he  gits  back  home 
ag'in." 

Borne  away  from  his  loyal  subjects  to  the 
pulsing  accompaniment  of  the  iron  horse's 
snorted  breath,  the  subject  of  this  commentary 
extended  himself  on  his  red  plush  seat  and  con 
sidered  his  fellow  travellers  with  a  view  to  honing 
his  agile  fancy  on  the  whetstones  of  their  duller 
mentalities.  On  the  whole,  they  promised  but 
poor  sport.  Immediately  in  front  of  him  sat  a 
bride  and  groom,  readily  recognisable  at  a 
glance  for  what  they  were — the  bride  in  cream- 
coloured  cashmere,  with  many  ribbons ;  the  groom 
in  stiff  black  diagonals,  with  braided  seams,  and 
a  white  lawn  tie.  A  red-faced  man  who  looked 
as  though  he  might  be  a  deputy  sheriff  from 
somewhere  slept  uneasily  one  seat  in  the  rear. 
He  had  his  shoes  off,  revealing  gray  yarn  socks. 
His  mouth  was  ajar,  and  down  in  his  throat  he 
snored  screechily,  like  a  planing  mill.  The 
[95] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


youngest  member  of  a  family  group  occupying 
two  seats  just  across  the  aisle  whimpered  a 
desire.  Its  mother  rummaged  in  a  shoebox 
containing,  among  other  delicacies,  hard-boiled 
eggs,  salt  and  pepper  mixed  and  enveloped  in  a 
paper  squill,  blueberry  pie,  leaking  profusely, 
and  watermelon-rind  preserves,  and  found  what 
she  sought — the  lower  half  of  a  fried  chicken  leg. 
Satisfied  by  this  gift  the  infant  ceased  from  fret 
ful  repining,  sucking  contentedly  at  the  meat 
end;  and  between  sucks  hammered  contentedly 
with  the  drumstick  on  the  seat  back  and  window 
ledge,  leaving  lardy  smears  there  in  the  dust. 

Cap'n  Buck — captain  by  virtue  of  having  a 
regular  passenger  run — came  through  the  car, 
collecting  tickets.  At  no  time  particularly  long 
on  temper,  he  was  decidedly  short  of  it  to-day. 
He  was  fifteen  minutes  behind  his  schedule — 
no  unusual  thing — but  the  locomotive  was  mis 
behaving.  Likewise  a  difference  of  opinion  had 
arisen  over  the  proper  identity  of  a  holder  of 
mileage  in  the  smoker.  He  halted  alongside 
Gash  Tuttle,  swaying  on  his  legs  to  the  roll  and 
pitch  of  the  car  floor. 

"Tickets?"  he  demanded  crisply. 

"Wee  gates,  Cap,"  answered  the  new  passen 
ger  jovially.  "How  does  your  copperosity  seem 
to  sagashuate  this  evenin'?" 

"Where  goin'?"  said  Fluter,  ignoring  the 
pleasantry.  "I'm  in  a  hurry.  What  station?" 

"Well,"  countered  the  irrepressible  one, 
"what  stations  haVe  you  got?" 

[96] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


Cap'n  Buck  Fluter's  cold  eye  turned  mean 
ingly  toward  the  bell  cord,  which  dipped  like 
a  tired  clothesline  overhead,  and  he  snapped 
two  fingers  peevishly. 

"Son,"  he  said  almost  softly,  "don't  mon 
key  with  me.  This  here  ain't  my  day  for 
foolin'!" 

Favoured  son  of  the  high  gods  though  he  was, 
Gash  Tuttle  knew  instantly  now  that  this  was 
indeed  no  day  for  fooling.  Cap'n  Buck  was  not 
a  large  man,  but  he  had  a  way  of  growing  to 
meet  and  match  emergencies.  He  handled  the 
Sunday  excursions,  which  was  the  acid  test  of  a 
trainman's  grit.  Coltish  youths,  alcoholically 
keened  up  or  just  naturally  high  spirited,  who 
got  on  his  train  looking  for  trouble  nearly  always 
got  off  looking  for  a  doctor.  As  regards  persons 
wishful  of  stealing  a  ride,  they  never  tried  to 
travel  with  Cap'n  Buck  Fluter  oftener  than 
once.  Frequently,  for  a  period  of  time  measur 
able  by  days  or  weeks,  they  were  in  no  fit  state 
to  be  travelling  with  any  one  except  a  trained 
nurse. 

Gash  Tuttle  quit  his  fooling.  Without  further 
ado — whatever  an  ado  is — he  surrendered  his 
ticket,  receiving  in  exchange  a  white  slip  with 
punchmarks  in  it,  to  wear  in  his  hatband.  Next 
came  the  train  butcher  bearing  chewing  gum, 
purple  plums  in  paper  cornucopias,  examples  of 
the  light  literature  of  the  day,  oranges  which 
were  overgreen,  and  bananas  which  were  over- 
ripe,  as  is  the  way  with  a  train  butcher's  oranges 
[97] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


and  bananas  the  continent  over.  In  contrast 
with  the  conductor's  dourness  the  train  butcher's 
mood  was  congenially  inclined  to  persiflage. 

After  an  exchange  of  spirited  repartee,  at 
which  the  train  butcher  by  an  admiring  shake 
of  the  head  tacitly  confessed  himself  worsted, 
our  hero  purchased  a  paper-backed  work  en 
titled,  "The  Jolly  Old  Drummer's  Private  Joke 
Book."  This  volume,  according  to  the  whispered 
confidences  of  the  seller,  contained  tales  of  so 
sprightly  a  character  that  even  in  sealed  covers 
it  might  be  sent  by  mail  only  at  the  sender's 
peril;  moreover,  the  wink  which  punctuated  this 
disclosure  was  in  itself  a  promise  of  the  spicy 
entertainment  to  be  derived  from  perusal  there 
of.  The  price  at  present  was  but  fifty  cents; 
later  it  would  go  up  to  a  dollar  a  copy;  this, 
then,  was  a  special  and  extraordinary  rate. 

The  train  continued  on  its  course — not  hur 
riedly,  but  with  reasonable  steadfastness  and 
singleness  of  purpose.  After  much  the  same 
fashion  the  sun  went  down.  The  bride  repeat 
edly  whisked  cindery  deposits  off  her  cashmered 
lap;  the  large-faced  man,  being  awakened  by  one 
of  his  own  snores,  put  on  his  shoes  and  indulged 
in  fine-cut  tobacco,  internally  applied;  but  the 
youngest  passenger  now  slept  all  curled  up  in  a 
moist  little  bundle,  showing  an  expanse  of  plump 
neck  much  mottled  by  heat-rash,  and  clutching 
in  one  greased  and  gritted  fist  the  denuded 
shank-bone  of  a  chicken  with  a  frieze  of  gnawed 

tendons  adhering  to  its  larger  joint. 

[98] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


At  intervals  the  train  stopped  at  small  way 
stations,  bus  or  non-bus  in  character  as  the  case 
might  be,  to  let  somebody  off  or  somebody  on. 
Cap'n  Buck  now  made  his  trips  carrying  his 
lantern — the  ornate  nickel-plated  one  that  had 
been  awarded  to  him  in  the  voting  contest  for 
the  most  popular  trainman  at  the  annual  fair 
and  bazaar  of  True  Blue  Lodge  of  the  Junior 
Order  of  American  Mechanics.  It  had  his  proper 
initials — J.  J.  F. — chased  on  its  glass  chimney 
in  old  English  script,  very  curlicue  and  orna 
mental.  He  carried  it  in  the  crook  of  his  left 
elbow  with  the  handle  round  his  biceps;  and 
when  he  reached  the  end  of  his  run  he  would 
extinguish  its  flame,  not  by  blowing  it  out  but 
by  a  quick,  short,  expert  jerk  of  his  arm.  This 
is  a  trick  all  conductors  seek  to  acquire;  some 
of  them  succeed. 

Twilight,  the  stage  manager  of  night,  had 
stolen  insidiously  on  the  scene,  shortening  up 
the  backgrounds  and  blurring  the  perspectives; 
and  the  principal  character  of  this  tale,  straining 
his  eyes  over  the  fine  print,  had  reached  the 
next  to  the  last  page  of  "The  Jolly  Old  Drum 
mer's  Private  Joke  Book"  and  was  beginning  to 
wonder  why  the  postal  authorities  should  be  so 
finicky  in  such  matters  and  in  a  dim  way  to  wish 
he  had  his  fifty  cents  back,  when  with  a  glad 
shriek  of  relief  the  locomotive,  having  bumped 
over  a  succession  of  yard  switches,  drew  up 
under  a  long  open  shed  alongside  a  dumpy  brick 
structure.  To  avoid  any  possible  misunder- 
[99] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


standing  this  building  was  labelled  Union  Depot 
in  large  letters  and  at  both  ends. 

Being  the  terminus  of  the  division,  it  was  the 
train's  destination  and  the  destination  of  Mr. 
Tuttle.  He  possessed  himself  of  an  imitation 
leather  handbag  and  descended  on  solid  earth 
with  the  assured  manner  of  a  seasoned  and  ex 
perienced  traveller.  Doubtless  because  of  the 
flurry  created  by  the  train's  arrival  and  the 
bustling  about  of  other  arrivals  his  advent 
created  no  visible  stir  among  the  crowd  at  the 
terminal.  At  least  he  noticed  none.  Still, 
these  people  had  no  way  of  knowing  who  he 
was. 

In  order  to  get  the  Union  Depot  closer  to  the 
railroad  it  had  been  necessary  to  place  it  some 
distance  away  from  the  heart  of  things;  even  so, 
metropolitan  evidences  abounded.  A  Belt  Line 
trolley  car  stood  stationary,  awaiting  passen 
gers;  a  vociferous  row  of  negro  hackmen  were 
kept  in  their  proper  places  by  a  uniformed 
policeman;  and  on  the  horizon  to  the  westward 
a  yellow  radiance  glowed  above  an  intervening 
comb  of  spires  and  chimneys,  showing  where 
the  inhabitants  of  the  third  largest  second-class 
city  in  the  state  made  merry  at  carnival  and 
street  fair,  to  celebrate  the  dedication  and  open 
ing  of  their  new  Great  White  Way — a  Great 
White  Way  seven  blocks  long  and  spangled  at 
sixty-foot  intervals  with  arc  lights  disposed  in 
pairs  on  ornamental  iron  standards.  Hence 

radiance. 

[100] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


Turning  westward,  therefore,  Mr.  Tuttle 
found  himself  looking  along  a  circumscribed 
vista  of  one-story  buildings  with  two-story 
fronts — that  is  to  say,  each  wooden  front  wall 
extended  up  ten  or  fifteen  feet  above  the  peak 
of  the  sloping  roof  behind  it,  so  that,  viewed 
full-on,  the  building  would  have  the  appearance 
of  being  a  floor  taller  than  it  really  was.  To  add 
to  the  pleasing  illusion  certain  of  these  super 
structures  had  windows  painted  elaborately  on 
their  slab  surfaces;  but  to  one  seeking  a  profile 
view  the  false  work  betrayed  a  razor-like  thin 
ness,  as  patently  flat  and .  artificial  as  stage 
scenery. 

Travellers  from  the  Eastern  seaboard  have 
been  known  to  gibe  at  this  transparent  artifice. 
Even  New  York  flat  dwellers,  coming  direct 
from  apartment  houses  which  are  all  marble 
foyers  and  gold-leaf  elevator  grilles  below  and 
all  dark  cubby-holes  and  toy  kitchens  above, 
have  been  known  to  gibe;  which  fact  is  here  set 
forth  merely  to  prove  that  a  sense  of  humour  de 
pends  largely  on  the  point  of  view. 

To  our  Mr.  Tuttle  such  deceits  were  but  a  part 
of  the  ordered  architectural  plan  of  things,  and 
they  moved  him  not.  What  did  interest  him 
was  to  note  that  the  nearmost  of  these  bogusly 
exalted  buildings  displayed,  above  swinging 
twin  doors,  a  cluster  of  lights  and  a  sign  testify 
ing  that  this  was  the  First  Chance  Saloon.  With 
out  looking  he  sensed  that  the  reverse  of  that 
Janus-faced  sign  would  advertise  this  same 
[101] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


establishment  as  being  the  Last  Chance.  He 
did  not  know  about  Janus,  but  he  did  know 
about  saloons  that  are  handily  adjacent  to  union 
depots.  Moreover,  an  inner  consciousness  ad 
vised  him  that  after  a  dry  sixty-mile  trip  he 
thirsted  amain.  He  took  up  his  luggage  and 
crossed  the  road,  and  entered  through  the  knee- 
high  swinging  doors. 

There  was  a  bar  and  a  bar  mirror  behind  it. 
The  bar  was  decorated  at  intervals  with  rect 
angles  of  fly  paper,  on  the  sticky  surfaces  of 
which  great  numbers  of  flies  were  gummed  fast 
in  a  perished  or  perishing  state;  but  before  they 
became  martyrs  to  the  fad  of  sanitation  these 
victims  had  left  their  footprints  thickly  on  the 
mirror  and  on  the  fringes  of  coloured  tissue  paper 
that  dangled  from  the  ceiling.  _In  a  front  cor 
ner,  against  a  window,  was  a  lunch  counter, 
flanked  on  one  side  by  stools  and  serving  as  a 
barricade  for  an  oil  stove  and  shelves  of  cove 
oysters  in  cans,  and  hams  and  cheeses  for  slicing, 
and  vinegar  cruets  and  pepper  casters  and  salt 
cellars  crusted  with  the  saline  deposits  of  the 
years.  A  solitary  patron  was  lounging  against 
the  bar  in  earnest  conversation  with  the  bar 
keeper;  but  the  presiding  official  of  the  food-pur 
veying  department  must  have  been  absent  on 
business  or  pleasure,  for  of  him  there  was  no  sign. 

Gash  Tuttle  ordered  a  beer.    The  barkeeper 

filled  a  tall  flagon  with  brew  drawn  from  the 

wood,  wiped  the  clinging  froth  from  its  brim 

with  a  spatulate  tool  of  whittled  cedar,  and 

[102] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


placed  the  drink  before  the  newcomer,  who  paid 
for  it  out  of  a  silver  dollar.  Even  as  Mr.  Tuttle 
scooped  in  his  change  and  buried  the  lower  part 
of  his  face  in  the  circumference  of  the  schooner 
he  became  aware  that  the  other  customer  had 
drawn  nearer  and  was  idly  rattling  a  worn 
leather  cup,  within  which  dice  rapped  against 
the  sides  like  little  bony  ghosts  uneasy  to  escape 
from  their  cabinet  at  a  seance. 

The  manipulator  of  the  dice  held  a  palm 
cupped  over  the  mouth  of  the  cup  to  prevent 
their  escape.  He  addressed  the  barkeeper: 

"Flem,"  he  said,  "you're  such  a  wisenheimer, 
I'll  make  you  a  proposition:  I'll  shake  three  of 
these  here  dice  out,  and  no  matter  whut  they 
roll  I'll  betcha  I  kin  tell  without  lookin'  whut 
the  tops  and  bottoms  will  come  to — whut  the 
spots'll  add  up  to." 

The  other  desisted  from  rinsing  glassware  in  a 
pail  beneath  the  bar. 

"Which  is  that?"  he  inquired  sceptically. 
"You  kin  tell  beforehand  whut  the  top  and  bot 
tom  spots'll  add  up?" 

"Ary  time  and  every  time!" 

"And  let  me  roll  'em  myself?" 

"And  let  you  roll  'em  yourself — let  anybody 
roll  'em.  I  don't  need  to  touch  'em,  even." 

"How  much'll  you  risk  that  you  kin  do  that, 
Fox?"  Roused  greed  was  in  the  speaker's -tone. 

"Oh,  make  it  fur  the  drinks,"  said  Fox — 
"jest  fur  the  drinks.  I  ain't  aimin'  to  take  your 
money  away  frum  you.  I  got  all  the  money 
[103] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


I  need."  For  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  be 
come  aware  of  a  third  party  and  he  turned  and 
let  a  friendly  hand  fall  on  the  stranger's  shoulder. 
"Tell  you  whut,  Flem,  we'll  make  it  drinks  fur 
this  gent  too.  Come  on,  brother,"  he  added; 
"you're  in  on  this.  It's  my  party  if  I  lose,  which 
I  won't,  and  ole  Flem's  party  if  he  loses,  which 
he  shore  will." 

It  was  the  warmth  of  his  manner  as  much  as 
the  generosity  of  his  invitation  that  charmed 
Mr.  Tuttle.  The  very  smile  of  this  man  Fox 
invited  friendship;  for  it  was  a  broad  smile,  rich 
in  proteids  and  butt  erf  ats.  Likewise  his  per 
sonality  was  as  attractively  cordial  as  his  attire 
was  striking  and  opulent. 

"  'Slide  or  slip,  let  'er  rip!'  "  said  Mr.  Tuttle, 
quoting  the  poetic  words  of  a  philosopher  of  an 
earlier  day. 

"That's  the  talk!"  said  Fox  genially.  He 
pushed  the  dice  box  across  the  bar.  "Go  to  it, 
bo!  Roll  them  bones!  The  figure  is  twenty- 
one!" 

From  the  five  cubes  in  the  cup  the  barkeeper 
eliminated  two.  He  agitated  the  receptacle 
violently  and  then  flirted  out  the  three  survivors 
on  the  wood.  They  jostled  and  crocked  against 
one  another,  rolled  over  and  stopped.  Their 
uppermost  faces  showed  an  ace,  a  six  and  a  five. 

"Twelve!"  said  Flem. 

"Twelve  it  is,"  echoed  Fox. 

"A  dozen  raw,"  confirmed  Gash  Tuttle,  now 

thoroughly  in  the  spirit  of  it. 

[  104] 


THE     SMART     ALECK 


"All  right,  then,"  said  Fox,  flashing  a  beam 
of  admiration  toward  the  humourist.  "Now 
turn  'em  over,  Flem — turn  'em  over  careful." 

Flem  obeyed,  displaying  an  ace,  a  deuce  and 
a  six. 

"And  nine  more  makes  twenty-one  in  all!" 
chortled  Fox  triumphantly. 

As  though  dazed,  the  barkeeper  shook  his 
head. 

. "  Well,  Foxey,  ole  pardner,  you  shore  got  me 
that  time,"  he  confessed  begrudgingly.  "  Whut'll 
it  be,  gents?  Here,  I  reckin  the  cigars  is  on  me 
too,  after  that."  From  a  glass-topped  case  at 
the  end  of  the  bar  alongside  Gash  Tuttle  he 
produced  a  full  box  and  extended  it  hospitably. 
"The  smokes  is  on  the  house — dip  in,  gents. 
Dip  in.  Try  an  Old  Hickory;  them's  pure 
Tampas — ten  cents  straight." 

He  drew  the  beers — large  ones  for  the  two,  a 
small  one  for  himself — and  raised  his  own  glass 
to  them. 

"Here's  to  you  and  t'ward  you!"  he  said. 

"Ef  I  hadn't  a-met  you  I  wouldn't  a-knowed 
you,"  shot  back  Gash  Tuttle  with  the  lightning 
spontaneity  of  one  whose  wit  moves  in  boltlike 
brilliancy;  and  at  that  they  both  laughed  loudly 
and,  as  though  dazzled  by  his  flashes,  bestowed 
on  him  the  look  that  is  ever  the  sweetest  tribute 
to  the  jester's  talents. 

The  toast  to  a  better  acquaintance  being 
quaffed  and  lights  exchanged,  the  still  non- 
plussed  Flem  addressed  the  winners: 

[105] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


"Well,  boys,  I  thought  I  knowed  all  there  was 
to  know  about  dice — poker  dice  and  crap  dice 
too;  but  live  and  learn,  as  the  feller  says.  Say, 
Fox,  put  me  on  to  that  trick — it'll  come  in 
handy.  I'll  ketch  Joe  on  it  when  he  gits  back," 
and  he  nodded  toward  the  lunch  counter. 

"  You  don't  need  to  know  no  more'n  you  know 
about  it  already,"  expounded  Fox.  "It's  bound 
to  come  out  that  way." 

"How  is  it  bound  to  come  out  that  way?" 

"Why,  Flem,  it's  jest  plain  arithmetic;  mathe 
matics — that's  all.  Always  the  tops  and  bot 
toms  of  ary  three  dice  come  to  twenty-one. 
Here,  gimme  that  cup  and  I'll  prove  it." 

In  rapid  succession,  three  times,  he  shook 
the  cubes  out.  It  was  indeed  as  the  wizard  had 
said.  No  matter  what  the  sequence,  the  com 
plete  tally  was  ever  the  same — twenty-one. 

"Now  who'd  'a'  thought  it!"  exclaimed  Flem 
delightedly.  "Say,  a  feller  could  win  a  pile  of 
dough  workin'  that  trick!  I'd  'a*  fell  fur  some 
real  money  myself." 

"That's  why  I  made  it  fur  the  drinks,"  said 
the  magnanimous  Fox.  "I  wouldn't  put  it  over 
on  a  friend — not  for  no  amount;  because  it's  a 
sure-thing  proposition.  It  jest  naturally  can't 
lose !  I  wouldn't  'a'  tried  to  skin  this  pardner 
here  with  it  even  if  I'd  'a'  thought  I  could."  And 
once  more  his  hand  fell  in  flattering  camaraderie 
on  a  fawn-coloured  shoulder.  "  I  know  a  regular 
guy  that's  likewise  a  wise  guy  as  soon  as  I  see 
him.  But  with  rank  strangers  it'd  be  plumb 
[106] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 

different.     The  way  I  look  at  it,  a  stranger's 
money  is  anybody's  money " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  as  the  doorhinges 
creaked.  A  tall,  thin  individual  wearing  a  cap, 
a  squint  and  a  cigarette,  all  on  the  same  side  of 
his  head,  had  entered.  He  stopped  at  the 
lunch  counter  as  though  desirous  of  purchasing 
food. 

"Sh-h!  Listen!"  Fox's  subdued  tones  reached 
only  the  barkeeper  and  Mr.  Tuttle.  "That 
feller  looks  like  a  mark  to  me.  D'ye  know  him, 
Flem?" 

"Never  seen  him  before,"  whispered  back 
Flem  after  a  covert  scrutiny  of  the  latest  arrival. 

"Fine!"  commented  Fox,  speaking  with 
rapidity,  but  still  with  low-toned  caution.  "Jest 
to  test  it,  let's  see  if  that  sucker'll  fall.  Here" 
— he  shoved  the  dice  cup  into  Gash  Tuttle's 
grasp — "you  be  playin'  with  the  bones,  sorter 
careless.  You  kin  have  the  first  bet,  because 
I've  already  took  a  likin'  to  you.  Then,  if  he's 
willin'  to  go  a  second  time,  I'll  take  him  on  fur 
a  few  simoleons."  The  arch  plotter  fell  into  an 
attitude  of  elaborate  indifference.  "Go  ahead, 
Flem;  you  toll  him  in." 

Given  a  guarantee  of  winning,  and  who  among 
us  is  not  a  born  gamester?  Gash  Tuttle's  cheeks 
flushed  with  sporting  blood  as  he  grabbed  for  the 
cup.  All  his  corpuscles  turned  to  red  and  white 
chips — red  ones  mostly.  As  for  the  barkeeper, 
he  beyond  doubt  had  the  making  of  a  born  con- 
spirator  in  him.  He  took  the  cue  instantly. 
[107] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"Sorry,  friend,"  he  called  out,  "but  the  grub 
works  is  closed  down  temporary.  Anything  I 
kin  do  fur  you?" 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  edging  over,  "I 
did  want  a  fried-aig  sandwich,  but  I  might 
change  my  mind.  Got  any  cold  lager  on 
tap?" 

"Join  us,"  invited  Fox;  "we're  jest  fixin'  to 
have  one.  Make  it  beer  all  round,"  he  ordered 
the  barkeeper  without  waiting  for  the  new 
comer's  answer. 

Beer  all  round  it  was.  Gash  Tuttle,  too  eager 
for  gore  to  more  than  sip  his,  toyed  with  the 
dice,  rolling  them  out  and  scooping  them  up 
again. 

"Want  to  shake  for  the  next  round,  any 
body?"  innocently  inquired  the  squint-eyed 
person,  observing  this  byplay. 

"The  next  round's  on  the  house,"  announced 
Flem,  obeying  a  wink  of  almost  audible  em 
phasis  from  Fox. 

"This  here  gent  thinks  he's  some  hand  with 
the  bones,"  explained  Fox,  addressing  the 
stranger  and  flirting  a  thumb  toward  Gash 
Tuttle.  "He  was  sayin'  jest  as  you  come  in  the 
door  yonder  that  he  could  let  anybody  else  roll 
three  dice,  and  then  he  could  tell,  without  lookin' 
even,  whut  the  tops  and  bottoms  would  add  up 
to?" 

"Huh?"  grunted  the  squinty-eyed  man. 
"Has  he  got  any  money  in  his  clothes  that  says 
he  kin  do  that?  WTiere  I  come  frum,  money 
[108] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


talks."  He  eyed  Gash  Tuttle  truculently,  as 
though  daring  him  to  be  game. 

"My  money  talks  too!"  said  Mr.  Tuttle  with 
nervous  alacrity.  He  felt  in  an  inner  vest 
pocket,  producing  a  modest  packet  of  bills. 
All  eyes  were  focused  on  it. 

"That's  the  stuff!"  said  Fox  with  mounting 
enthusiasm.  "How  much  are  you  two  gents 
goin'  to  bet  one  another?  Make  it  fur  real 
money — that  is,  if  you're  both  game!" 

"If  he  don't  touch  the  dice  at  all  I'll  bet  him 
fur  his  whole  roll,"  said  the  impetuous  new 
comer. 

"That's  fair  enough,  I  reckin,"  said  Fox. 
"Tell  you  whut — to  make  it  absolutely  fair  I'll 
turn  the  dice  over  myself  and  Flem'll  hold  the 
stakes.  Then  there  can't  be  no  kick  comin' 
from  nobody  whatsoever,  kin  there?  "  He  faced 
their  prospective  prey.  "How  strong  are  you? " 
he  demanded,  almost  sneeringly.  "How  much 
are  you  willin'  to  put  up  against  my  pardner 
here?" 

"Any  amount!  Any  amount!"  snapped  back 
the  other,  squinting  past  Fox  at  Gash  Tuttle's 
roll  until  one  eye  was  a  button  and  the  other  a 
buttonhole.  "  Twenty-five — thirty — thirty-five 
— as  much  as  forty  dollars.  That's  how  game 
I  am." 

Avarice  gnawed  at  the  taproots  of  Gash  Tut 
tle's  being,  but  caution  raised  a  warning  hand. 
Fifteen  was  half  of  what  he  had  and  thirty  was 
all.  Besides,  why  risk  all  on  the  first  wager, 
[109] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


even  though  there  was  no  real  risk?  A  person 
so  impulsively  sportive  as  this  victim  would 
make  a  second  bet  doubtlessly.  He  ignored  the 
stealthy  little  kick  his  principal  accomplice 
dealt  him  on  the  shin.  "I'll  make  it  fur  fifteen," 
he  said,  licking  his  lips. 

"If  that's  as  fur  as  you  kin  go,  all  right,"  said 
the  slit-eyed  man,  promptly  posting  his  money 
in  the  outstretched  hand  of  the  barkeeper,  who 
in  the  same  motion  took  over  a  like  amount 
from  the  slightly  trembling  fingers  of  the  chal 
lenger. 

Squint-eye  picked  up  the  dice  cup  and  rattled 
its  occupants. 

"Come  on  now!"  he  bantered  Gash  Tuttle. 
"Whut'll  they  add  up,  tops  and  bottoms?" 

"Twenty-one!"  said  Mr.  Tuttle. 

"Out  they  come,  then!" 

And  out  they  did  come,  dancing  together, 
tumbling  and  somersaulting,  and  finally  halting 
— a  deuce,  a  trey  and  a  four. 

"Three  and  two  is  five  and  four  is  nine,"  Gash 
Tuttle  read  off  the  pips.  "Now  turn  'em  over! " 
he  bade  Fox.  "That's  your  jo'b — turn  'em 
over ! "  He  was  all  tremulous  and  quivery  inside. 

In  silence  Fox  drew  the  nearest  die  toward 
him  and  slowly  capsized  it.  "Four,"  he  an 
nounced. 

He  flipped  the  deuce  end  for  end,  revealing 
its  bottom:  "Five!" 

He  reached  for  the  remaining  die — the  four- 
spot.  Dragging  it  toward  him,  his  large  fingers 
[no] 


THE      SMART      ALECK 


encompassed  it  for  one  fleeting  instance,  hiding 
it  from  view  entirely;  then  he  raised  his  hand: 
"Six!" 

"Makin'  twenty-one  in  all,"  stuttered  Gash 
Tuttle.  He  reached  for  the  stakes. 

"Nix  on  that  quick  stuff!"  yelled  his  op 
ponent,  and  dashed  his  hand  aside.  "The  tops 
come  to  nine  and  the  bottoms  to  fifteen — that's 
twenty-four,  the  way  I  figger.  You  lose!"  He 
pouched  the  money  gleefully. 

Stunned,  Gash  Tuttle  contemplated  the  up 
turned  facets  of  the  three  dice.  It  was  true — 
it  was  all  too  true!  Consternation,  or  a  fine 
imitation  of  that  emotion,  filled  the  counte 
nances  of  Flem  and  of  Fox. 

"That's  the  first  time  I  ever  seen  that  hap 
pen,"  Fox  whispered  in  the  loser's  ear.  "Bet 
him  again — bet  high — and  git  it  all  back.  That's 
the  ticket!" 

Mr.  Tuttle  shook  his  head  miserably,  but 
stubbornly.  For  this  once,  in  the  presence  of 
crushing  disaster,  the  divine  powers  of  retort 
failed  him.  He  didn't  speak — he  couldn't! 

"Piker  money!  Piker  money!"  chanted  the 
winner.  "Still,  ever'  little  bit  helps — eh, 
boys?" 

And  then  and  there,  before  Gash  Tuttle's  bulg 
ing  and  horrified  eyes,  he  split  up  the  winnings  in 
the  proportion  of  five  for  Flem  and  five  for  Fox 
and  five  for  himself.  Of  a  sudden  the  loser  was 
shouldered  out  of  the  group.  He  looked  not 
into  friendly  faces,  but  at  contemptuous  backs 

[HI] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


and  heaving  shoulders.  The  need  for  play  act 
ing  being  over,  the  play  actors  took  their  ease 
and  divided  their  pay.  The  mask  was  off. 
Treachery  stood  naked  and  unashamed. 

Reaching  blindly  for  his  valise,  Gash  Tuttle 
stumbled  for  the  door,  a  load  lying  on  his 
daunted  spirit  as  heavy  as  a  stone.  Flem  hailed 
him. 

"Say,  hold  on!"  He  spoke  kindly.  "Ain't 
that  your  quarter  yonder?" 

He  pointed  to  a  coin  visible  against  the  flat 
glass  cover  of  the  cigar  case. 

"Sure  it  is — it's  yourn.  I  seen  you  leave  it 
there  when  I  give  you  the  change  out  of  that 
dollar  and  purposed  to  tell  you  'bout  it  at  the 
time,  but  it  slipped  my  mind.  Go  on  and  pick 
it  up — it's  yourn.  You're  welcome  to  it  if  you 
take  it  now!" 

Automatically  Gash  Tuttle  reached  for  the 
quarter — small  salvage  from  a  great  and  over 
whelming  loss.  His  nails  scraped  the  glass, 
touching  only  glass.  The  quarter  was  cunningly 
glued  to  its  underside.  Surely  this  place  was 
full  of  pitfalls.  A  guffawed  chorus  of  derision 
rudely  smote  his  burning  ears. 

"On  your  way,  sucker!  On  your  way!" 
gibed  the  perfidious  Fox,  swinging  about  with 
his  elbows  braced  against  the  bar  and  a  five- 
dollar  bill  held  with  a  touch  of  cruel  jauntiness 
between  two  fingers. 

"  Whut  you  got  in  the  gripsack — hay  samples 
or  punkins?"  jeered  the  exultant  Slit-Eye. 


THE      SMART      ALECK 


"Yes;  whut  is  the  valise  fur?"  came  Flem's 
parting  taunt. 

Under  their  goadings  his  spirit  rallied. 

"Cat's  fur,  to  make  kittens'  britches!"  he 
said.  Then,  as  a  final  shot:  "You  fellers  needn't 
think  you're  so  derned  smart — I  know  jest 
exactly  how  you  done  it!" 

He  left  them  to  chew  on  that.  The  parting 
honours  were  his,  he  felt,  but  the  spoils  of  war — 
alas! — remained  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 
Scarcely  twenty  minutes  at  the  outside  had 
elapsed  since  his  advent  into  city  life,  and 
already  one-half  of  the  hoarded  capital  he  had 
meant  should  sustain  him  for  a  whole  gala  week 
was  irretrievably  gone,  leaving  behind  an  empti 
ness,  a  void  as  it  were,  which  ached  like  the 
socket  of  a  newly  drawn  tooth. 

Vague,  formless  thoughts  of  reprisal,  of  ven 
geance  exacted  an  hundredfold  when  oppor 
tunity  should  fitly  offer,  flitted  through  his 
numbed  brain.  Meantime  though  adventure 
beckoned ;  half  a  mile  away  or  less  a  Great  White 
Way  and  a  street  fair  awaited  his  coming.  That 
saffron  flare  against  the  sky  yonder  was  an  invi 
tation  and  a  promise.  Sighing,  he  shifted  his 
valise  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

The  Belt  Line  car,  returning  stationward,  bore 
him  with  small  loss  of  time  straightway  to  the 
very  centre  of  excitement;  to  where  bunting 
waved  on  store  fronts  and  flag  standards  swayed 
from  trolley  poles,  converting  the  County 
Square  into  a  Court  of  Honour,  and  a  myriad 
[113] 


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lights  glowed  golden  russet  through  the  haze  of 
dust  kicked  up  by  the  hurrying  feet  of  merry 
making  thousands.  Barkers  barked  and  brass 
bands  brayed;  strange  cries  of  man  and  beast 
arose,  and  crowds  eddied  to  and  fro  like  wind 
blown  leaves  in  a  gusty  November.  And  all 
was  gaiety  and  abandon.  From  the  confusion 
certain  sounds  detached  themselves,  becoming 
intelligible  to  the  human  understanding.  As 
for  example: 

"Remembah,  good  people,  the  cool  of  the 
evenin'  is  the  time  to  view  the  edgycated 
ostritch  and  mark  his  many  peculiarities!" 

And  this: 

"The  big  red  hots!  The  g-e-r-reat  big,  juicy, 
sizzlin*  red  hots!  The  eriginal  hot-dog  sand- 
wige — fi"  cents,  halluf  a  dime,  the  twentieth 
part  of  a  dollah !  Here  y'are !  Here  y 'are !  The 
genuwine  Mexican  hairless  Frankfurter  fer  fi' 
cents!" 

And  this: 

"  Cornfetti !  Cornfetti !  All  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow !  All  the  pleasures  of  the  Maudie  Graw ! 
A  large  full  sack  for  a  nickel !  Buy  cornf etti  and 
enjoy  yourselves." 

And  so  on  and  so  forth. 

The  forlorn  youth,  a  half-fledged  school 
teacher  from  a  back  district,  who  had  purchased 
the  county  rights  of  a  patent  razor  sharpener 
from  a  polished  gentleman  who  had  had  to  look 
at  the  map  before  he  even  knew  the  name  of  the 
county,  stood  on  a  dry-goods  box  at  the  corner 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


of  Jefferson  and  Yazoo,  dimly  regretful  of  the 
good  money  paid  out  for  license  and  unsalable 
stock,  strivirig  desperately  to  remember  and 
enunciate  the  patter  taught  him  by  the  gifted 
promoter.  For  the  twentieth  time  he  lifted  his 
voice,  essaying  his  word-formula  in  husky  and 
stuttering  accents  for  the  benefit  of  swirling 
multitudes,  who  never  stopped  to  listen: 

"Friends,  I  have  here  the  Infallible  Patent 
Razor  Sharpener.  'Twill  sharpen  razors,  knives, 
scissors,  scythe  blades  or  any  edged  tool.  If  you 

don't  believe  it  will '  He  paused,  forgetting 

the  tag  line;  then  cleared  his  throat  and  impro 
vised  a  finish:  "If  you  don't  believe  it  will — 
why,  it  will!"  It  was  a  lame  conclusion  and 
fruitful  of  no  sales. 

How  different  the  case  with  a  talented  profes 
sional  stationed  half  a  block  down  the  street, 
who  nonchalantly  coiled  and  whirled  and  threw 
a  lasso  at  nothing;  then  gathered  in  the  rope  and 
coiled  and  threw  it  again,  always  at  nothing  at 
all,  until  an  audience  collected,  being  drawn  by  a 
desire  to  know  the  meaning  of  a  performance 
seemingly  so  purposeless.  Then,  dropping  the 
rope,  he  burst  into  a  stirring  panegyric  touching 
on  the  miraculous  qualifications  of  the  Ajax 
Matchless  Cleaning  and  Washing  Powder,  which 
made  bathing  a  sheer  pleasure  and  household 
drudgery  a  joy. 

Never  for  one  moment  abating  the  flow  of  his 
eloquence,  this  person  produced  a  tiny  vial,  held 
it  aloft,  uncorked  it,  shook  twenty  drops  of  its 


LOCAL     COLOR 


colourless  fluid  contents  on  the  corrugated  sur 
face  of  a  seemingly  new  and  virgin  sponge;  then 
gently  kneaded  and  massaged  the  sponge  until 
— lo  and  behold! — lather  formed  and  grew  and 
mounted  and  foamed,  so  that  the  yellow  lump 
became  a  mass  of  creamy  white  suds  the  size  of 
a  peck  measure,  and  from  it  dripped  huge  bub 
bles  that  foamed  about  his  feet  and  expired 
prismatically,  as  the  dolphin  was  once  believed 
to  expire,  leaving  smears  upon  the  boards  where 
on  the  operator  stood. 

Thereat  dimes  flowed  in  on  him  in  clinking 
streams,  and  bottles  of  the  Matchless  flowed 
from  him  until,  apparently  grown  weary  of  com 
merce,  he  abandoned  his  perch,  avowedly  for 
refreshment,  but  really — this  being  a  trade 
secret — to  rub  shavings  of  soft  yellow  soap  in 
to  the  receptive  pores  of  a  fresh  sponge  and  so 
make  it  ready  against  the  next  demonstration. 

Through  such  scenes  Gash  Tuttle  wandered,  a 
soul  apart.  He  was  of  the  carnival,  but  not  in  it 
— not  as  yet.  With  a  pained  mental  jolt  he 
observed  that  about  him  men  of  his  own  age 
wore  garments  of  a  novel  and  fascinating  cut. 
By  contrast  his  own  wardrobe  seemed  suddenly 
grown  commonplace  and  prosaic;  also,  these  city 
dwellers  spoke  a  tongue  that,  though  lacking, 
as  he  inwardly  conceded,  in  the  ready  pungency 
of  his  own  speech,  nevertheless  had  a  saucy  and 
attractive  savour  of  novelty  in  its  phrasing.  In 
deed,  he  felt  lonely.  So  must  a  troubadour  of 
old  have  felt  when  set  adrift  in  an  alien  and 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


hostile  land.  So  must  the  shining  steel  feel  when 
separated  from  the  flint  on  which  it  strikes  forth 
its  sparks  of  fire.  I  take  it  a  steel  never  really 
craves  for  its  flint  until  it  parts  from  it. 

As  he  wormed  through  a  group  of  roistering 
youth  of  both  sexes  he  tripped  over  his  own 
valise;  a  wadded  handful  of  confetti  struck  him 
full  in  the  cheek  and  from  behind  him  came  a 
gurgle  of  laughter.  It  was  borne  in  on  him  that 
he  was  the  object  of  mirth  and  not  its  creator. 
His  neck  burned.  Certainly  the  most  distressing 
situation  which  may  beset  a  humourist  follows 
hard  on  the  suspicion  that  folks  are  laughing — 
not  with  him,  but  at  him! 

He  hurried  on  as  rapidly  as  one  might  hurry 
in  such  crowded  ways.  He  was  aware  now  of  a 
sensation  of  emptiness  which  could  not  be 
attributed  altogether  to  the  depression  occa 
sioned  by  his  experience  at  the  First  and  Last 
Chance  Saloon;  and  he  took  steps  to  stay  it. 
He  purchased  and  partook  of  hamburger  sand 
wiches  rich  in  chopped  onions. 

Later  it  would  be  time  to  find  suitable  lodg 
ings.  The  more  alluring  of  the  pay-as-you-enter 
attractions  were  yet  to  be  tested.  By  way  of  a 
beginning  he  handed  over  a  ten-cent  piece  to  a 
swarthy  person  behind  a  blue  pedestal,  and 
mounting  eight  wooden  steps  to  a  platform  he 
passed  behind  a  flapping  canvas  curtain.  There, 
in  company  with  perhaps  a  dozen  other  patrons, 
he  leaned  over  a  wooden  rail  and  gazed  down- 
ward  into  a  shallow  tarpaulin-lined  den  where  a 
[  117  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


rather  drowsy-appearing,  half-nude  individual, 
evidently  of  Ethiopian  antecedents,  first  toyed 
with  some  equally  drowsy  specimens  of  the  rep 
tile  kingdom  and  then  partook  sparingly  and 
with  no  particular  avidity  of  the  tail  of  a  very 
small  garter  snake. 

Chance,  purely,  had  led  Gash  Tuttle  to  select 
the  establishment  of  Osay  rather  than  that  of 
the  Educated  Ostrich,  or  the  Amphibious  Man, 
or  Fatima  the  Pearl  of  the  Harem,  for  his  first 
plunge  into  carnival  pleasures;  but  chance  is  the 
hinge  on  which  many  moving  events  swing.  It 
was  so  in  this  instance. 

Osay  had  finished  a  light  but  apparently  satis 
fying  meal  and  the  audience  was  tailing  away 
when  Gash  Tuttle,  who  happened  to  be  the 
rearmost  of  the  departing  patrons,  felt  a  detain 
ing  touch  on  his  arm.  He  turned  to  confront  a 
man  in  his  shirtsleeves — a  large  man  with  a 
pock-marked  face,  a  drooping  moustache  and  a 
tiger-claw  watch  charm  on  his  vest.  It  was  the 
same  man  who,  but  a  minute  before,  had  deliv 
ered  a  short  yet  flattering  discourse  touching  the 
early  life  and  manners  and  habits  of  the  con 
sumer  of  serpents — in  short,  the  manager  of 
the  show  and  presumably  its  owner. 

"Say!"  began  this  gentleman. 

"Say  yourself,"  flashed  Gash,  feeling  himself 
on  safe  ground  once  more;  "your  mouth's  open." 

The  man  grinned  in  appreciation  of  the  thrust 
— a  wincing  grin,  as  though  owning  himself 
beaten  in  the  very  first  sally. 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


"All  right,  old  scout,"  lie  said  jovially,  "I 
will.  Come  back  here  where  nobody  can't  hear 
me  while  I  say  it."  He  drew  the  younger  man 
to  the  inner  side  of  the  platform  and  sank  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  rumble.  "Soon  as  I  seen 
you  comin'  in  I  says  to  myself,  'That's  the  party 
I'm  lookin'  for.'  You  don't  live  here  in  this 
town,  do  you?" 

Gash  Tuttle  shook  his  head  and  started  to 
speak,  but  the  big  man  was  going  on.  Plainly  he 
was  not  one  to  waste  time  in  idle  prelimina 
ries: 

"That's  the  way  I  doped  it.  You're  in  the 
profesh,  ain't  you?  You've  been  workin'  this 
street-fair  game  somewhere,  ain't  you?" 

"No,"  Gash  Tuttle  confessed,  yet  somehow 
at  the  same  time  feeling  flattered. 

"Well,  that  just  goes  to  show  how  a  guy  can 
be  fooled,"  said  the  Osay  man.  "I'd  'a'  swore 
you  was  on  to  all  the  ropes  in  this  biz.  Anyway, 
I  know  just  by  the  cut  of  your  jib  you're  the 
party  I'm  lookin'  for.  That's  why  I  braced  you. 
My  name's  Fornaro;  this  here  is  my  outfit.  I 
want  somebody  to  throw  in  with  me — and  I've 
made  up  my  mind  you're  the  party  I'm  lookin' 
for." 

Once  bitten,  twice  shy;  and  Gash  Tuttle's 
fifteen-dollar  bite  was  still  raw  and  bleeding. 
He  started  to  pull  away. 

"I  wouldn't  choose  to  invest  in  anything 
more  until  I'd  looked  it  over,"  he  began.  The 
large  man  grasped  him  by  his  two  lapels  and 
[H9] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


broke  in  on  him,  drowning  out  the  protest  before 
it  was  well  started. 

"Who  said  anything  about  anybody  investin' 
anything? "  he  demanded.  "Did  I?  No.  Then 
listen  to  me  a  minute — just  one  minute.  I'm 
in  a  hurry  my  own  self  and  I  gotta  hand  you  this 
proposition  out  fast." 

Sincerity  was  in  his  tone;  was  in  his  manner 
too.  Even  as  he  spoke  his  gaze  roved  past  Gash 
Tuttle  toward  the  tarpaulin  draperies  which 
contributed  to  their  privacy,  and  he  sweat 
freely;  a  suetlike  dew  spangled  his  brow.  There 
was  a  noise  outside.  He  listened  intently,  then 
fixed  a  mesmerising  stare  on  Gash  Tuttle  and 
spoke  with  great  rapidity  and  greater  earnestness : 

"You  see,  I  got  some  other  interests  here. 
Besides  this  pit  show,  I'm  a  partner  in  a  store 
pitch  and  a  mitt-joint;  and,  what  with  every 
thing,  I'm  overworked.  That's  the  God's  truth 
— I'm  overworked!  What  I  need  is  a  manager 
here.  And  soon  as  I  seen  how  you  handled 
yourself  I  says  to  myself,  'That's  the  party  I 
want  to  hire  for  manager.'  What  did  you  say 
your  name  was?" 

"Tuttle— Gashney  P.  Tut— 

"That's  enough — the  Tuttle  part  will  do  for 
me.  Now,  Tuttle,  set  down  that  there  keister 
of  yours — that  gripsack — and  listen.  I  gotta 
go  down  the  street  for  a  half  hour — maybe  an 
hour — and  I  want  you  to  take  charge.  You're 
manager  while  I'm  gone — the  joint  is  yours  till 
I  git  back.  And  to-night,  later  on,  we'll  fix  up 
[120] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


a  deal  together.  If  you  think  you  like  the  job 
we'll  make  a  reg'lar  arrangement;  we'll  make  it 
permanent  instid  of  temporary.  See?" 

"But— but— 

"But  nothin'!  I  want  to  find  out  if  my  first 
judgment  about  you  is  correct.  See?  I  want  to 
make  a  test.  See?  That's  it — a  test.  You  ain't 
goin'  to  have  much  to  do,  first  off.  The  nigger 
is  all  right  s'long  as  he  gits  his  dope."  He  mo 
tioned  toward  the  canvas-lined  retreat  where 
Osay  now  dozed  heavily  among  the  coils  of  his 
somnolent  pets.  "And  Crummy — that's  my 
outside  man — kin  handle  the  front  and  make 
the  spiel,  and  take  in  what  money  conies  in.  I'll 
mention  to  him  as  I'm  leavin'  that  you're  in 
charge.  Probably  I'll  be  back  before  time  for 
the  next  blow-off.  All  you  gotta  do  is  just  be 
manager — that's  all;  and  if  anybody  comes 
round  askin'  for  the  manager,  you're  him.  See?  " 

His  impetuosity  was  hypnotising — it  was 
converting;  nay,  compelling.  It  was  enough 
to  sweep  any  audience  off  its  feet,  let  alone  an 
audience  of  one.  Besides,  where  lives  the  male 
adult  between  the  ages  of  nine  and  ninety  who 
in  his  own  mind  is  not  convinced  that  he  has 
within  him  the  making  of  a  great  and  successful 
amusement  purveyor?  Still,  Gash  Tuttle  hesi 
tated.  The  prospect  was  alluring,  but  it  was 
sudden — so  sudden. 

As  though  divining  his  mental  processes,  the 
man  Fornaro  added  a  clinching  and  a  convincing 

argument. 

[121] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"To  prove  I'm  on  the  dead  level  with  you, 
I'm  goin'  to  pay  you  for  your  time — pay  you 
now,  in  advance — to  bind  the  bargain  until  we 
git  the  details  all  fixed  up."  He  hauled  out  a 
fair-sized  wad  of  currency  and  from  the  mass 
detached  a  frayed  green  bill.  "I'm  goin'  to 
slip  you  a  she-note  on  the  spot." 

"A  which?" 

"A  she-note — two  bones.    See?" 

He  forced  the  money  into  the  other's  palm. 
As  Gash  Tuttle  automatically  pocketed  the 
retainer  he  became  aware  that  this  brisk  new 
associate  of  his,  without  waiting  for  any  fur 
ther  token  of  agreement  on  his  part,  already  was 
preparing  to  surrender  the  enterprise  into  his 
keeping.  Fornaro  backed  away  from  him  and 
dropped  nimbly  down  off  the  back  of  the  plat 
form  where  there  was  a  slit  in  the  canvas  wall; 
then  turned  and,  standing  on  tiptoe  to  bring  his 
mouth  above  the  level  of  the  planking,  spoke 
the  parting  admonition  in  hasty  tones: 

"Remember  now,  you're  the  boss,  the  main 
guy,  the  whole  cheese!  If  anybody  asts  you  tell 
'em  you're  the  manager  and  stick  to  it." 

The  canvas  flapped  behind  him  and  he  was 
gone.  And  Gash  Tuttle,  filled  with  conflicting 
emotions  in  which  reawakened  pride  predomi 
nated,  stood  alone  in  his  new-found  kingdom. 

Not  for  long  was  he  alone,  however.    To  be 

exact,  not  for  more  than  half  a  minute  at  the 

very  most.     He  heard  what  he  might  have 

heard  before  had  his  ears  been  as  keenly  at- 

[122] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


tuned  as  the  vanished  Fornaro's  were.  He 
heard,  just  outside,  voices  lifted  conflictingly  in 
demand,  in  expostulation,  in  profane  protest 
and  equally  profane  denunciation  of  something 
or  other.  A  voice  which  seemed  to  be  that  of 
the  swarthy  man  denominated  as  Crummy  gave 
utterance  to  a  howl,  then  instantly  dimmed  out, 
as  though  its  owner  was  moving  or  being  moved 
from  the  immediate  vicinity  with  unseemly  celer 
ity  and  despatch.  Feet  drummed  on  the  wooden 
steps  beyond  the  draperies.  Something  heavy 
overturned  or  was  overthrown  with  a  crash. 

And  as  Mr.  Tuttle,  startled  by  these  un 
seemly  demonstrations,  started  toward  the  front 
entrance  of  his  domain  the  curtain  was  yanked 
violently  aside  and  a  living  tidal  wave  flowed  in 
on  him,  dashing  high  and  wide.  On  its  crest, 
propelled  by  irresistible  cosmic  forces,  rode,  as 
it  were,  a  slouch-hatted  man  with  a  nickel- 
plated  badge  on  his  bosom,  and  at  this  person's 
side  was  a  lanky  countryman  of  a  most  threat 
ening  demeanour;  and  behind  them  and  beyond 
them  came  a  surging  sea  of  faces — some  hostile, 
some  curious,  and  all  excited. 

"Who's  in  charge  here?"  shouted  the  be- 
badged  man. 

"Me— I  am,"  began  Gash  Tuttle.  "I'm  the 
manager.  What's  wanted?" 

"You  are!  I  'rest  you  in  the  name  of  the  law 
for  runnin'  a  skin  game! "  the  constable  whooped 
gleefully — "on  a  warrant  swore  out  less  'en  a 

hour  ago." 

[123] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


And  with  these  astounding  words  he  fixed  his 
fingers,  grapple-hook  fashion,  in  the  collar  of 
the  new  manager's  coat;  so  that  as  Gash  Tuttle, 
obeying  a  primal  impulse,  tried  to  back  away 
from  him,  the  back  breadth  of  the  coat  bunched 
forward  over  his  head,  giving  him  the  appear 
ance  of  a  fawn-coloured  turtle  trying  to  retreat 
within  its  own  shell.  His  arms,  hampered  by 
sleeves  pulled  far  down  over  the  hands,  win 
nowed  the  air  like  saurian  flippers,  wagging  in 
vain  resistance. 

Holding  him  fast,  ignoring  his  muffled  and 
inarticulate  protests,  the  constable  addressed 
the  menacing  countryman : 

"Is  this  here  the  one  got  your  money?" 

"No,  'tain't.  'Twas  a  big  ugly  feller,  with 
mushtashes;  but  I  reckin  this  here  one  must've 
helped.  Lemme  search  him." 

"Hands  off  the  prisoner!"  ordered  the  con 
stable,  endeavouring  to  interpose  his  bulk  be 
tween  maddened  accuser  and  wriggling  cap 
tive. 

He  spoke  too  late  and  moved  too  slowly.  The 
countryman's  gouging  hands  dived  into  Mr. 
Tuttle's  various  pockets  and  were  speedily  out 
again  in  the  open;  and  one  of  them  held  money 
in  it — paper  and  silver. 

"Here  'tis!"  barked  the  countryman,  exul 
tant  now.  "This  here  two-dollar  bill  is  mine — 
I  know  it  by  this  here  red-ink  mark."  He 
shuffled  out  the  three  remaining  bills  and  stared 
at  them  a  moment  in  stupefaction,  and  his  yelp 

[124] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


of  joy  turned  to  a  bellow  of  agonised  berserk 
rage.  "I  had  two  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
dollars  in  cash,  and  here  ain't  but  seventeen 
dollars  and  sixty  cents!  You  derned  sharper! 
Where's  the  rest  of  my  mortgage  money  that 
yore  gang  beat  me  out  of?  " 

He  swung  a  fearsome  flail  of  an  arm  and  full 
in  Gash  Tuttle's  chest  he  landed  a  blow  so  well 
aimed,  so  vigorous,  that  by  its  force  the  recipient 
was  driven  backward  out  of  his  coat,  leaving 
the  emptied  garment  in  the  constable's  clutches; 
was  driven  still  further  back  until  he  tottered 
on  the  rear  edge  of  the  platform  and  tumbled 
off  into  space,  his  body  tearing  away  a  width  of 
canvas  wall  and  taking  it  along  with  him  as  he 
disappeared. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  fell  so  hard  that  he 
bounced  up  so  instantaneously.  He  fought  him 
self  free  of  the  smothering  folds  of  dusty  tar 
paulin  and  turned  to  flee  headlong  into  the  dark 
ness.  He  took  three  flying  steps  and  tripped 
over  the  guy  rope  of  the  next  tent.  As  he  fell 
with  stunning  violence  into  the  protecting 
shadows  he  heard  pursuit  roll  over  the  platform 
past  Osay,  thud  on  the  earth,  clatter  on  by  him 
and  die  away  in  the  distance  to  the  accompani 
ment  of  cheers,  whoops  and  the  bloodthirsty 
threats  of  the  despoiled  countryman. 

If  one  has  never  stolen  a  ride  on  a  freight 
train  the  task  presents  difficulties  and  dangers. 
Still,  it  may  be  done,  provided  one  is  sufficiently 

[125] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


hard  pressed  to  dare  its  risks  and  risk  its  dis 
comforts.  There  is  one  especially  disagreeable 
feature  incident  to  the  experience — sooner  or 
later  discovery  is  practically  inevitable. 

Discovery  in  this  instance  came  just  before 
the  dawn,  as  the  freight  lumbered  through  the 
swampy  bottoms  of  Obion  Creek.  A  sleepy  and 
therefore  irritable  brakeman  found,  huddled  up 
on  the  floor  of  an  empty  furniture  car,  a  dark 
heap,  which,  on  being  stirred  with  a  heavy  boot- 
toe,  moved  and  moaned  and  gave  forth  various 
other  faint  signs  of  life.  So,  as  the  locomotive 
slowed  down  for  the  approach  to  the  trestle,  he 
hoisted  the  unresisting  object  and  with  callous 
unconcern  shoved  it  out  of  the  open  car  door  on 
to  the  sloping  bank  of  the  built-up  right  of  way 
— all  this  occurring  at  a  point  just  beyond  where 
a  white  marker  post  gleamed  spectrally  in  the 
strengthening  light  of  the  young  summer  day, 
bearing  on  its  planed  face  the  symbol,  S-3— - 
meaning  by  that,  three  miles  to  Swango  Junc 
tion. 

At  sunup,  forty  minutes  later,  a  forlorn  and 
shrunken  figure,  shirt-sleeved,  hatless  and  car 
rying  no  baggage  whatsoever,  quit  the  crossties 
and,  turning  to  the  left  from  the  railroad  track 
some  rods  above  the  station,  entered,  with 
weary  gait,  a  byway  leading  over  the  hill  to  the 
town  beyond.  There  was  a  drooping  in  the 
shoulders  and  a  dragging  of  the  mud-incrusted 
legs,  and  the  head,  like  Old  Black  Joe's,  was 

bending  low. 

[126] 


THE      SMART     ALECK 


The  lone  pedestrian  entered  the  confines  of 
Swango  proper,  seeking,  even  at  that  early  hour, 
such  backways  as  seemed  most  likely  to  be 
empty  of  human  life.  But  as  he  lifted  his  leaden 
feet  past  the  Philpotts  place,  which  was  the 
most  outlying  of  local  domiciles,  luck  would 
have  it  that  Mr.  Abram  Philpotts  should  be  up 
and  stirring;  in  fact,  Mr.  Philpotts,  being  en 
gaged  in  the  milk  and  butter  business,  was  out 
in  his  barn  hitching  a  horse  to  a  wagon.  Chanc 
ing  to  pass  a  window  of  the  barn  he  glanced 
out  and  saw  a  lolled  head  bobbing  by  above 
the  top  of  his  back  fence. 

"Hey  there!"  he  called  out.  "Hey,  Gash, 
what  air  you  doin'  up  so  early  in  the  mornin'?'* 

With  a  wan  suggestion  of  the  old  familiar 
sprightliness  the  answer  came  back,  comically 
evasive: 

"That's  fur  me  to  know  and  fur  you  to  find 
out!" 

Overcome,  Mr.  Philpotts  fell  up  against  his 
stable  wall,  feebly  slapping  himself  on  the  legs 
with  both  hands. 

"Same  old  Gashney!"  he  gurgled.  "They 
can't  nobody  ever  git  ahead  of  you,  kin  they, 
boy?" 

The  words  and  the  intent  of  the  tribute 
reached  beyond  the  palings.  Their  effect  was 
magical;  for  the  ruler  was  in  his  realm  again, 
back  among  his  loyal,  worshipful  subjects.  The 
bare  head  straightened;  the  wearied  legs  un- 
kinked;  the  crushed  and  bruised  spirit  revived. 
[127] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


And  Gashney  Tuttle,  king  of  jesters,  re-crowned, 
proceeded  jauntily  on  his  homeward  way,  with 
the  wholesome  plaudits  of  Mr.  Philpotts  ringing 
in  his  gratified  ears  and  the  young  sun  shining, 
golden,  in  his  face. 


[128] 


CHAPTER  IV 
BLACKER   THAN   SIN 


IT  was  the  year  after  the  yellow  fever  that 
Major  Foxmaster  moved  out  from  Vir 
ginia;  that  would  make  it  the  year  1876. 
And  the  next  year  the  woman  came.    For 
Major  Foxmaster  her  coming  was  inopportune. 
It  is  possible  that  she  so  timed  it  with  that 
very  thing  in  mind.     To  order  her  own  plans 
with  a  view  to  the  upsetting  and  the  disordering 
of  his  plans  may  have  been  within  the  scope 
of  her  general  scheme.     Through  intent,  per 
haps,  she  waited  until  he  had  established  him 
self  here  in  his  new  environment,  five  hun 
dred  miles  from  tidewater,  before  she  followed 
him. 

Re  this  as  it  may,  that  was  what  happened. 
The  Major  came  out  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 
He  was  pushing  fifty  then,  a  fine  upstanding 
figure  of  a  man — what  women,  for  lack  of  a 
better  name,  call  distinguished  looking.  He 
had  been  a  lieutenant  in  the  Mexican  War 
and  a  major  in  the  Civil  War — on  the  Confed- 
[129] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

erate  side,  of  course,  seeing  that  he  came  from 
the  seaboard  side  and  not  from  the  mountainous 
flank  of  Virginia. 

You  get  some  notion  of  what  manner  of  man 
he  was  when  I  tell  you  that  in  all  the  years  he 
lived  in  this  city,  which  was  a  fair-sized  city, 
only  one  man  ever  called  him  by  his  first  name. 
Behind  his  back  he  was  to  others  The  Major, 
sometimes  The  Old  Major,  and  rarely  Major; 
but  to  his  face  people  always  hailed  him,  prop 
erly,  as  Major  Foxmaster.  And,  despite  the 
role  he  was  to  play  in  the  community,  he  never 
acquired  a  nickname;  and  that  was  not  so 
strange,  either.  You  give  nicknames  to  gey 
sers,  but  not  to  glaciers. 

This  man's  manner  was  icily  formal  toward 
those  he  deemed  his  inferiors,  icily  polite  to 
ward  those  whom  he  acknowledged  his  equals. 
He  had  no  code  for  his  intercourse  with  su 
periors  because  he  never  met  anybody  whom  he 
regarded  as  his  social  superior.  He  looked  upon 
the  world  with  a  bleak,  chill  eye,  and  to  it  he 
showed  a  bleak,  chill  face.  It  was  a  mask 
really — a  mask  of  flesh  held  in  such  fine  and 
rigid  control  that  it  gave  no  hint,  ever,  of  what 
went  on  in  the  cool  brain  behind  it.  A  profes 
sional  poker  player  would  have  traded  five  years 
out  of  his  life  to  be  the  owner  of  such  a  face. 

Well,  the  Major  came.     He  had  money,  he 

had  family,  he  had  a  military  record;  likewise 

he  had  the  poise  and  the  pose  which,  lacking 

all  the  other  things,  still  would  have  given  him 

[130] 


BLACKER.     THAN      SIN 

consideration  and  a  place  in  town  life.  His 
status  in  the  financial  world  became  fixed  when 
he  deposited  in  the  largest  bank  a  drawing  ac 
count  of  such  size  as  instantly  to  win  the  cud 
dling  admiration  of  the  president  of  the  bank. 
He  had  established  himself  in  rooms  at  the 
Gaunt  House — then,  and  for  many  years  there 
after,  the  principal  hotel.  Before  fall  he  was 
proposed  for  membership  in  the  exclusive  Ken- 
il worth  Club,  that  was  the  unattainable  Mecca 
toward  which  many  men  turned  wistful  eyes. 
Judge  Sherwan,  who  was  afterward  to  be  his 
only  close  friend,  sponsored  his  candidacy  and 
he  was  elected  promptly.  Very  soon  his  life 
fell  into  the  grooves  that  always  thenceforward 
it  was  to  follow. 

The  Major  did  not  go  into  any  business. 
Opportunities  to  go  into  this  or  that  were  in 
due  season  presented  to  him.  He  listened  with 
his  air  of  congealed  courtesy,  but  declined  them 
all,  explaining  that  his  present  investments 
were  entirely  satisfactory  and  yielded  him  a 
satisfactory  income.  Like  many  men  of  his 
breed  and  generation,  he  liked  a  good  horse  so 
well  that  it  was  more  than  a  liking — with  him 
it  was  a  love.  Afternoons  he  frequently  drove 
one:  a  ramping  bay  mare  with  a  fractious  tem 
per  and  a  set  of  gifted  heels.  He  was  fond  of 
cards,  and  in  the  evenings  generally  played 
cards  with  certain  of  his  fellow  club  members 
in  a  private  room  at  the  Kenil worth  Club. 

These  men,  though,  never  became  his  friends, 
[131] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


but  were  merely  the  men  with  whom  he  played 
cards.  If  of  a  morning  after  breakfast  he  went 
for  a  walk,  as  sometimes  happened,  he  went 
alone,  except  on  those  infrequent  occasions 
when  Judge  Sherwan  accompanied  him.  At  the 
beginning  he  was  asked  to  affairs  at  the  homes 
of  influential  people;  but,  since  he  never  accept 
ed  these  invitations — any  of  them — people 
presently  quit  asking  him.  Among  a  hundred 
thousand  human  beings  he  became,  or  rather 
he  remained,  so  far  as  interchange  of  thought, 
or  of  affection,  or  of  confidence,  or  of  intimacy 
was  concerned,  a  social  Crusoe  upon  a  desert 
island  set  in  an  empty  sea,  with  no  Man  Friday 
to  bear  him  company  in  his  loneliness — unless 
it  might  be  said  that  old  Sherwan  qualified, 
after  a  fashion,  for  the  Man-Friday  job. 

You  see,  the  Major  knew  all  along  that — 
sooner  or  later — the  woman  would  be  coming. 
For  these  few  months  he  had  played  the  truant 
from  his  destiny,  or  his  Nemesis,  or  his  fate, 
or  by  whatever  fancy  name  you  might  choose 
to  call  it;  but  there  was  no  chance  of  his  having 
escaped  it  altogether.  Through  strength  of  will 
power  he  could  in  silence  continue  to  endure 
it  as  he  had  in  silence  endured  it  through  the 
years  that  stretched  backward  between  young- 
manhood  and  middle  age.  Through  pride  he 
would  involve  no  other  person,  however  re 
motely,  hi  the  sorry  web  of  his  own  weaving. 
Mentally  he  manoeuvred  to  stand  apart  from 
his  kind;  to  render  himself  as  inaccessible,  as 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


aloof,  as  unknowable  by  them  as  the  core  of 
an  iceberg. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  inevitable  that  the  chan 
nels  of  his  outer  life,  no  matter  how  narrowly 
they  ran  or  how  coldly  they  coursed,  would  be 
disturbed  and  set  awry  by  her  coming.  A  cul 
tivated  and  well-sustained  indifference  to  pop 
ular  opinion  is  all  well  enough,  but  gossip  is  a 
corrosive  that  eats  through  the  calluses  until 
it  finds  quick  flesh  underneath.  The  Major 
might  arm  himself  against  showing  what  he 
felt,  but  he  could  not  armour  himself  against 
feeling  what  he  felt.  He  knew  it — and  she  knew 
it.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she,  this  one  time, 
delayed  her  coming  until  he  had  ample  oppor 
tunity  for  becoming,  in  a  measure,  fixed  in  the 
community  and  identified  with  it. 

She  came.  One  morning  in  the  young  spring 
of  the  year  following  the  year  when  this  narra 
tive  begins,  Major  Foxmaster  stepped  out  from 
between  the  tall  pillars  of  the  Gaunt  House 
doorway  to  find  her  waiting  for  him  upon  the 
sidewalk.  She  stood  close  to  the  curbing,  a 
tall  and  straight  figure,  swathed  all  in  dead 
and  dreary  black,  with  black  skirts  hiding  her 
feet  and  trailing  on  the  bricks  behind  her;  with 
black  gloves  upon  her  clasped  hands;  with  a 
long,  thick  veil  of  black  crepe  hiding  her  face 
and  the  shape  of  her  head,  and  descending, 
front  and  back,  almost  to  her  waist — a  striking 
figure  and  one  to  catch  the  eye. 

After  the  first  glance  he  gave  no  heed  to  her 
[133] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


at  all,  nor  she  to  him — except  that  when  he  had 
descended  the  short  flight  of  stone  steps  and 
set  off  down  the  street  at  his  usual  brisk,  sol 
dierly  gait,  she  followed,  ten  paces  in  his  rear. 
By  reason  of  her  skirts,  which  swept  the  ground 
round  her,  and  by  reason,  too,  that  her  shoes 
had  soles  of  felt  or  of  rubber,  she  seemed  almost 
to  float  along  the  pavement  behind  him,  with 
out  apparent  effort — certainly  without  sound. 

Two  blocks  down  the  street  he  entered  a 
business  house.  She  waited  outside,  as  silent 
as  a  mute  and  as  funereal  as  a  pall.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  reappeared;  she  fell  in  behind  him. 
He  crossed  over  to  the  other  side;  she  crossed, 
too,  maintaining  the  distance  between  them. 
Crossing,  his  heels  hit  hard  upon  the  rutted 
cobbles  of  the  roadway;  but  she  glided  over 
them  noiselessly  and  smoothly,  almost  like  one 
who  walked  on  water.  He  went  into  the  Kenil- 
worth  Club  and  for  an  hour  or  two  sat  in  the 
reading  room  behind  a  newspaper.  Had  he 
raised  his  eyes  he  might  have  seen,  through 
the  window,  the  woman  waiting  on  the  curb. 
He  ate  his  luncheon  there  in  the  club  at  a  table 
in  a  corner  of  the  dining  room,  alone,  as  was 
his  way.  It  was  two  o'clock  and  after  before 
he  left  to  go  to  the  livery  stable  wrhere  he  kept 
his  mare.  She  followed,  to  wait  outside  the 
livery  stable  until  he  had  driven  away  in  his 
gig,  bound  for  the  trotting  track  where  the 
city's  horse  fanciers  exercised  their  harness  stock. 

For  a  space,  then,  she  disappeared.    Having 

[134] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


returned  the  rig  to  its  quarters  and  having 
dined  at  the  Gaunt  House,  the  Major  came 
forth  once  more  at  eight-thirty  o'clock  to  re 
turn  to  the  Kenil worth  for  a  bout  at  the  cards. 
He  was  spruced  and  for  the  second  time  that 
day  he  had  shaved.  Plainly  his  measured  and 
customary  habit  of  life  was  to  go  on  just  as  it 
had  gone  on  before  the  woman  came — or, 
rather,  it  might  be  said  that  it  was  only  now 
reassuming  the  routine  which,  with  breaks  in 
between,  it  had  pursued  through  so  many  years. 
Major  Foxmaster  came  down  the  steps,  draw 
ing  on  his  gloves.  From  the  deeper  darkness 
beyond  a  patch  of  yellowish  glow  where  a  gas 
lamppost  stood  the  woman  emerged,  appearing 
now  as  an  uncertain,  wavering  shape  in  her 
black  swathings.  Again  she  followed  him,  at  a 
distance  of  a  few  paces,  to  the  Kenilworth  Club; 
again  she  waited  in  the  shadows  cast  by  its  old- 
fashioned  portico  while  he  played  his  game  and, 
at  its  end,  cashed  in  his  winnings — for  the  Major 
won  that  night,  as  very  often  he  did;  again  she 
followed  him  homeward  at  midnight  through 
the  silent  and  empty  street.  Without  a  word  or 
a  sign  or  a  backward  glance  he  ascended  the 
steps  and  passed  within  the  doors  of  the  Gaunt 
House.  Without  a  word  or  a  sign  she  lingered 
until  he  had  disappeared;  then  she  turned  off 
the  pavement  into  the  road  and  vanished, 
swimming  away  upright,  as  it  were,  without 
visible  motion  of  her  limbs  or  her  body,  into 

a  stilled  and  waveless  sea  of  darkness. 

[135] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


I  have  here  set  down  the  story  of  this  day 
with  such  detail  because,  with  occasional  small 
variations,  it  was  to  be  the  story  of  an  uncount 
ed  number  of  other  days  coming  after  it. 

Inside  of  twenty-four  hours  the  whole  city 
knew  the  tale,  and  buzzed  and  hummed  with 
it.  Inside  of  forty-eight  hours  the  woman,  by 
common  consent,  had  been  given  the  names  she 
was  ever  thereafter  to  wear.  She  was,  to  some, 
The  Woman  in  Black;  to  others,  Foxmaster's 
Shadow.  Inside  of  a  week  or  two  the  town  was 
to  know,  by  word  of  mouth  passed  on  from  this 
person  to  that,  and  by  that  person  to  another, 
all  that  it  was  ever  to  know  of  her. 

She  came  from  the  same  place  whence  he 
came — a  small  Virginia  town  somewhere  near 
the  coast.  As  the  current  reports  ran,  the  Fox- 
master  plantation  and  the  plantation  of  her 
family  adjoined;  as  children — remember,  I  am 
still  quoting  the  account  that  was  generally 
accepted — they  had  played  together;  as  young 
man  and  young  woman  they  had  been  sweet 
hearts.  He  wronged  her  and  then  denied  her 
marriage.  Her  father  was  dead;  she  had  no 
brothers  and  no  near  male  relatives  to  exact, 
at  the  smaller  end  of  a  pistol,  satisfaction  from 
the  seducer.  So  she  dedicated  her  days  and 
nights  to  the  task  of  haunting  him  with  the 
constant  reminder  of  his  crime  and  her  wrongs. 
She  clad  herself  in  black,  with  a  veil  before  her 
face  to  hide  it,  as  one  in  mourning  for  a  dead 
life;  and  she  set  herself  to  following  him  wher- 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


ever  he  might  go.  She  never  spoke  to  him; 
she  never,  so  far  as  the  world  at  large  knew, 
wrote  to  him  nor  meddled  in  any  fashion  what 
soever  with  him  or  his  affairs — but  she  followed 
him. 

The  war,  coming  on,  broke  for  four  years  the 
continuity  of  her  implacable  plan  of  vengeance. 
When  the  war  was  over,  and  he  came  back  home, 
she  took  it  up  again.  He  left  the  town  where  he 
had  been  reared  and  moved  to  Richmond,  and 
then  after  a  time  from  Richmond  to  Baltimore; 
in  due  season  she  followed  after.  Finally  he 
had  moved  to  this  more  westerly  city,  lying  on 
the  border  between  the  North  and  the  South. 
And  now  here  she  was  too. 

Through  an  agent  in  Virginia  she  had  leased, 
ready  furnished,  the  old  Gresham  place,  diag 
onally  across  the  way  from  the  front  entrance 
of  the  Gaunt  House;  that  fact  speedily  came  out, 
proving  that,  like  him,  she  also  had  means  of 
her  own.  Through  this  same  agent  the  taxes 
were  thereafter  paid.  Presumably  she  moved 
in  under  cover  of  night,  for  she  was  a  figure 
that,  once  seen,  was  not  to  be  forgotten;  and 
most  certainly  no  one  could  remember  having 
seen  her  before  that  fine  spring  morning  when 
Major  Foxmaster  came  out  of  the  Gaunt  House 
to  find  her  waiting  for  him. 

She  had  brought  her  servants  with  her — a 

middle-aged  mulatto  man  and  his  wife,  a  tall, 

young,  coal-black  negro  woman;  both  of  them 

as  close-mouthed  as  only  some  negroes  can  be, 

[137] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


when  they  are  the  exceptions  to  prove  the  rule 
of  a  garrulous  race.  The  mulatto  man  was  a 
combination  of  butler  and  gardener.  It  was 
he  who  did  the  marketing,  dealing  with  the 
tradespeople  and  paying  all  the  bills.  The 
negro  woman  was  the  cook,  presumably. 
Passers-by  rarely  saw.  her.  These  two,  with 
their  mistress,  composed  the  household. 

For  such  a  mistress  and  such  a  household  the 
old  Gresham  place  made  a  most  fit  abiding 
place.  It  was  one  of  those  houses  that  seemed 
builded  for  the  breeding  of  mysteries  and  the 
harbouring  of  tragedies — the  kind  of  house  that 
cannot  stand  vacant  long  without  vaguely  ac 
quiring  the  reputation  of  being  haunted.  It 
was  a  big,  foursquare  house  of  greyish  stone, 
placed  in  the  exact  centre  of  a  narrow,  treeless 
lot,  which  extended  through  for  the  full  depth 
of  the  city  block.  In  front  of  it  was  a  high 
picketed  fence  and  a  deep,  bare  grassplot;  be 
hind  it  was  a  garden  of  sorts,  with  a  few  stunted 
and  illy-nourished  berry  bushes;  and  on  each 
side  of  it  was  a  brick  wall,  so  high  that  the  sun 
shine  never  fell  on  the  earth  at  the  side  of  the 
house  toward  the  north;  and  even  in  the  hottest 
summer  weather  the  foundation  stones  there 
were  slick  and  sweaty  with  the  damp,  and  big 
snails  crawled  on  the  brick  wall  that  ran  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall,  leaving  trails  of  a  luminous 
slime  across  the  slick  greenish  mould  which  cov 
ered  the  bricks. 

The  woman  took  this  house,  with  its  gear 
[138] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


and  garnishings,  just  as  the  last  of  the  Greshams 
had  left  it  when  he  died.  During  the  months 
and  years  it  remained  tenantless  all  the  upper 
windows  had  been  tightly  shuttered;  she  left 
them  so.  In  the  two  lower  front  windows, 
which  flanked  the  deeply  recessed  front  door 
and  which  lacked  blinds,  were  stiff,  heavy 
shades  of  a  dull  silver  colour,  drawn  down  until 
only  a  glassed  space  of  inches  showed  between 
their  unf ringed  ends  and  the  stone  copings. 
These,  too,  were  left  as  they  had  been.  They 
accorded  well  with  the  blank,  cold  house  itself; 
they  matched  in  with  its  drear  old  face;  they 
made  you  think  of  coins  on  a  dead  man's  eyes. 

This  house,  as  I  have  said,  stood  almost  op 
posite  the  Gaunt  House.  What  went  on  within 
it  no  outsider  ever  knew,  for  no  outsider  ever 
crossed  its  threshold — to  this  good  day  no  out 
sider  ever  has  known;  but  every  day  its  door 
opened  to  let  out  its  draped  and  veiled  mistress, 
setting  forth  on  her  business,  which  was  to 
follow  Major  Foxmaster;  and  every  night, 
when  that  day's  business  was  done,  it  opened 
again  to  let  her  back  in.  In  time  the  town  grew 
used  to  the  sight;  it  never  grew  tired  of  talking 
about  it. 

As  for  Major  Foxmaster,  he  would  dodge 
about  the  country  no  more;  for,  in  the  long  run 
or  the  short,  dodging  availed  him  nothing. 
The  years  behind  him  proved  that.  He  would 
bide  where  he  wras  until  death,  which  was  the 
supreme  handicapper,  named  the  winner  of 


LOCAL     COLOR 


this,  the  last  heat  of  their  strange  match.  He 
would  outlive  her  and  be  free;  else  she  would 
outlive  him,  to  see  her  long-famished  hatred 
sated.  And  he  wondered  whether,  if  he  died 
first,  she,  in  her  black  mourning,  would  dog  his 
dead  body  to  the  grave  as  she  had  dogged  his 
living  steps!  It  was  a  morbid  fancy  and,  per 
haps  because  it  was  morbid,  it  found  a  lodgment 
in  the  Major's  mind,  recurring  to  him  again 
and  again.  The  existence  that  he — and  she — 
had  willed  him  to  lead  was  not  conducive  to  an 
entirely  healthy  mental  aspect. 

Whatever  his  thoughts  were,  he  betrayed 
none  of  them  to  the  rest  of  creation.  Exactly 
as  before  she  appeared,  so  he  continued  to  de 
port  himself.  His  behaviour  showed  no  change. 
He  took  his  walks,  drove  his  bay  filly,  played 
his  cards  at  the  Kenilworth.  He  carried  his 
head  as  high  as  ever;  he  snapped  his  military 
heels  down  as  firmly  as  ever  on  the  stones  of 
the  street  and  the  bricks  of  the  sidewalk.  With 
a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  as  inscrutable  and  yet 
as  clear  as  two  bits  of  hard  blue  ice,  and  with 
a  face  like  a  square  of  chipped  flint,  he  went  his 
daily  and  his  hourly  way,  outwardly  oblivious 
to  the  stares  of  acquaintance  and  stranger 
alike,  seeming  not  to  know  that  ten  paces  in 
his  rear,  or  twelve,  came  drifting  this  erect 
veiled  shape  which  was  clad  all  in  dead  black 
— as  black  as  sin,  as  black  as  his  sin  had  been, 
as  black  as  her  misery  had  been — the  incarnate 

embodiment  of  her  shame  and  his. 

[  140] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 

In  fair  weather  as  in  foul,  in  blistering  mid 
summer  and  blizzardy  midwinter,  daytime  and 
nighttime,  she  followed  him.  If  she  lost  the 
trail  she  waited  in  all  patience  until  he  re 
appeared.  She  seemed  tireless  and  hungerless. 
Wet  or  cold  or  heat  seemed  not  to  affect  her. 
In  her  grim  pursuit  of  him  her  spirit  rose  tri 
umphant  above  the  calls  of  the  flesh.  At  mid 
night,  after  a  long  vigil  outside  the  Kenil- 
worth,  she  moved  behind  him  with  the  same 
swift,  noiseless,  floating  motion  that  marked 
her  in  the  morning.  And  so  it  went  with  these 
two. 

If  he  did  not  notice  her  presence,  neither  did 
he  seek  ever  to  elude  her.  If  he  never  spoke 
to  her,  neither  did  he  speak  of  her  to  others. 
As  for  the  woman,  she  never  spoke  to  any  one 
at  all.  Outside  the  walls  of  the  house  where  she 
lived  her  voice  was  never  heard  and  her  face 
was  never  seen.  Only  one  person  ever  dared 
speak  to  the  Major  of  her. 

Old  Sherwan  himself  did  not  dare.  Of  all 
human  beings  he  stood  nearest  to  the  Major. 
If  the  Major  might  be  said  to  have  an  intimate 
Judge  Sherwan  was  the  one.  Moreover,  he, 
Sherwan,  was  by  way  of  being  a  he-gossip, 
which  of  all  the  created  breeds  of  gossips  is  the 
most  persistent  and  the  most  consistent,  the 
most  prying  and,  therefore,  the  most  dangerous. 
He  yearned  for  the  smell  of  impropriety  as 
a  drug-fiend  yearns  for  his  drug.  His  was  a 
brackish  old  soul  and  from  its  soured  depths 


LOCAL      COLOR 


he  dearly  loved  to  spew  up  the  bilge  waters 
of  scandal.  The  pumps  leading  to  that  fouled 
hold  were  always  in  good  order.  Give  him  the 
inch  of  fact  and  he  would  guarantee  to  provide 
the  ell  of  surmise  and  innuendo.  Grown  too 
old  to  sin  actually  he  craved  to  sin  vicariously 
— to  balance  always  on  the  edge  of  indiscretion, 
since  he  no  longer  plunged  into  it  bodily. 

Wherefore,  after  the  woman  came  and  the 
first  shock  of  her  coming  wore  off,  he  made 
a  point  of  being  seen  in  Major  Foxmaster's 
company  as  much  as  possible.  The  share  of 
notoriety  the  association  brought  him  was  dear 
to  his  withered,  slack-valved  old  heart.  In 
his  manner  and  his  look,  in  the  very  way  he 
cocked  his  hat  and  waggled  his  stiffened  legs, 
you  discerned  that  he  wished  to  divide  with 
his  friend  the  responsibility  for  the  presence 
of  his  friend's  trailing  shadow. 

But,  for  all  this  and  all  that,  he  did  not  dare 
ever  to  speak  of  her  to  Major  Foxmaster.  Joel 
Bosler  dared  to,  though,  he  being  one  of  the 
meagre-minded  breed  proverbially  reputed  to 
go  rushing  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread.  This 
Joel  Bosler  was  a  policeman;  his  beat  included 
the  Gaunt  House  corner  and  both  sides  of  the 
street  upon  which  the  Gaunt  House  fronted. 
He  was  a  kindly  enough  creature;  a  long  slab- 
pole  of  a  man,  with  the  face  of  an  old  buck 
sheep.  For  some  reason — which  he  least  of  all 
could  fathom — Joel  Bosler  had  contracted  a 
vague  sort  of  attachment  for  the  Major.  They 

[  142  ] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 

met  occasionally  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the 
hotel;  and,  since  the  Major  always  responded 
with  iced  and  ceremonial  politeness  to  the  po 
liceman's  salute,  it  may  have  been  that  this, 
to  Bosler's  limited  mind,  was  proof  of  a  friendly 
understanding  existing  between  them. 

One  day,  about  a  month  after  the  woman 
moved  into  the  old  Gresham  place,  Bosler, 
having  first  scratched  his  head  assiduously  for 
a  space  of  minutes  to  stimulate  the  thought, 
was  moved  to  invade  the  Gaunt  House  lobby 
and  send  his  name  upstairs  to  the  Major's 
rooms.  A  negro  bell  boy  brought  word  back 
that  the  Major  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
Policeman  Bosler,  and  Policeman  Bosler  ac 
cordingly  went  up.  The  Major  was  in  the  sit 
ting  room  of  his  suite  of  rooms  on  the  second 
floor.  Bosler,  bowing,  came  in  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him  with  an  elaborate  carefulness. 

"Good  morning,  sir?"  said  Major  Foxmaster 
formally,  with  the  note  of  polite  interrogation 
in  his  tone;  and  then,  as  Bosler  stood  fingering 
his  blue  cap  and  shuffling  his  feet:  "Well,  sir; 
well?" 

"Major  Foxmaster,  suh,"  began  Bosler,  "I — 
er — I  kinder  wanted  to  say  somethin'  to  you 
privatelike." 

He  halted  lamely.  Before  the  daunting  focus 
of  those  frigid  blue  eyes  his  speech,  carefully 
rehearsed  beforehand,  was  slipping  away  from 
him. 

"Except  for  ourselves,  there  is  no  one  within 


LOCAL     COLOR 


hearing,"  stated  the  Major.  "Kindly  proceed 
— if  you  will  be  so  good." 

"Well,  suh,"  faltered  Bosler,  fumbling  his 
words  out — "well,  suh,  Major  Foxmaster,  it's 
this-a-way:  I've  been — been  a-thinkin'  it  over; 
and  if  this  here  lady — this  woman  that  wears 
black  all  the  time — the  one  that's  moved  into 
the  old  Gresham  place  acrost  the  street — if  she 
pesters  you  any  by  follerin*  you  round  every 
wheres,  the  way  she  does — I  thought  I'd  be 
very  glad — if  you  said  the  word — to  warn  her 
to  quit  it,  else  I'd — I'd  have  to  take  steps  agin 

her  by  law  or  somethin'.    And  so — and  so 

He  stopped  altogether.  He  had  been  chilled 
at  the  moment  of  his  entrance;  now  he  was 
frozen  mentally  to  below  the  zero  point. 

The  Major  spoke,  and  his  syllables  battered 
on  Joel  Hosier's  unprotected  head  like  hail 
stones. 

"Have  you  ever  observed  that  the  person 
to  whom  you  refer  has  spoken  to  me?"  he  de 
manded. 

"No,  suh;  but " 

"Or  ever  molested  me  in  any  way?" 

"Oh,  no,  suh;  but,  you  see " 

"Have  you  ever  observed  that  I  spoke  to 
her?" 

"No,  suh;  but " 

"Have  you  any  reason  for  believing,  of  your 
own  knowledge,  that  she  knows  me?" 

"Well,  suh,  I 

"Or  that  I  am  acquainted  with  her?" 

[144] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 

"Well,  I- 

"Then,  sir,  since  she  is  minding  her  own 
business  and  I  am  minding  my  own  business, 
I  suggest  that  you  take  pattern  by  such  ex 
amples  and  cultivate  the  habit  of  minding 
your  own  business.  Kindly  do  not  address 
me  hereafter  upon  this  subject — or  any  other. 
I  find  your  conversation  singularly  unattrac 
tive.  Good  day,  sir!" 

Policeman  Joel  Bosler  had  no  recollection 
afterward  of  having  withdrawn  himself.  He 
presently  found  himself  downstairs  in  the 
lobby,  and,  a  little  later  on,  outside  the  hotel, 
upon  his  regular  beat.  How  he  got  there  or 
how  long  it  took  him  to  get  there  he  could  not, 
with  any  degree  of  certainty,  say. 

Presently,  though,  he  saw  the  Major  issue 
forth  from  the  Gaunt  House  door.  And  as 
the  Major's  foot  descended  upon  the  first  step 
of  the  flight  leading  down  to  the  street  level, 
the  gate  of  the  old  Gresham  place  across  the 
way  clicked,  and  here  came  the  cloaked,  veiled 
woman,  floating  noiselessly  across  the  road  to 
follow  him. 

Joel  Bosler,  still  in  a  state  of  intellectual 
numbness,  watched  them  as  they  passed  down 
the  street — the  Major  striding  on  ahead,  the 
gliding  woman  ten  paces  behind  him.  He  had 
witnessed  the  same  sight  perhaps  thirty  times 
before.  In  days  to  come  he  was  to  witness  it 
hundreds  of  times  more;  but  always  he  watched 
it  and  never  grew  weary  of  watching  it.  Nor 
[  145  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


did  the  eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  town  weary  of 
watching  it. 

And  so  the  thing  went  on. 

The  years  went  by.  Five  of  them  went  by. 
Ten  of  them  went  by.  A  new  generation  was 
growing  up,  coming  into  manhood  and  woman 
hood.  An  old  generation  was  thinning  out 
and  dying  off.  The  Gaunt  House  was  no  longer 
the  best  hotel  in  the  city.  It  was  the  second 
best  and,  before  very  long,  was  to  be  the  third 
best.  Tall  business  houses — six,  seven,  eight, 
nine  stories  tall — shouldered  up  close  to  it;  and 
they  dwarfed  it,  making  it  seem  squatty  and 
insignificant,  whereas  before  it  had  loomed 
massive  and  monument-high,  dominating  the 
corner  and  the  rest  of  the  block.  Once  the 
cobbled  road  before  its  doors  had  clinked  to 
the  heel-taps  of  smart  carriage  horses.  Now  it 
thundered  clamorously  beneath  the  broad  iron- 
shod  tires  of  dray  and  vans. 

The  old  Gresham  place,  diagonally  across 
the  way,  looked  much  as  it  had  always  looked; 
indeed,  there  was  not  much  about  it,  exteriorly 
speaking,  to  undergo  change.  Maybe  the  green 
mould  in  the  damp,  slick  walk  at  its  northern 
side  was  a  little  bit  greener  and  a  little  bit 
thicker;  and  maybe,  in  summer,  the  promenad 
ing  snails  were  a  trifle  more  numerous  there. 
The  iron  gate,  set  in  the  middle  breadth  of  the 
iron  fence,  lolled  inward  upon  one  rusted 
hinge,  after  the  fashion  of  a  broken  wing.  The 
[146] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


close-drawn  shades  in  the  two  lower  front  win 
dows  had  faded  from  a  tarnished  silver  colour 
to  a  dulled  leaden  colour;  and  one  of  them — 
the  one  on  the  right-hand  side — had  pulled  away 
and  awry  from  its  fastenings  above  and  was 
looped  down,  hanging  at  a  skewed  angle  behind 
the  dirtied  and  crusted  panes,  as  though  one  of 
the  coins  had  slipped  halfway  off  the  dead 
man's  eyelids.  People  persistently  called  it  the 
old  Gresham  place,  naming  it  so  when  they 
pointed  it  out  to  strangers  and  told  them  the 
tale  of  its  veiled  chatelaine  and  her  earthly  mis 
sion. 

For,  you  know,  Major  Foxmaster's  shadow 
still  followed  after  Major  Foxmaster.  Long 
before,  these  two  had  been  accepted  as  verities; 
it  might  now  be  said  of  them  that  they  had 
become  institutional — inevitable  fixtures,  with 
orbits  permanent  and  assured  in  the  swing  of 
community  life.  In  the  presence  of  this  pair 
some  took  a  degree  of  pride,  bragging  when 
away  from  home  that  they  came  from  the  town 
where  so  strange  a  sight  might  forever  be  seen, 
and  when  at  home  bringing  visitors  and  chance 
acquaintances  to  this  corner  of  the  town  in 
order  to  show  it  to  these  others. 

Along  with  this  morbid  pride  in  a  living 
tragedy  ran  a  sort  of  undercurrent  of  sym 
pathy  for  its  actors.  From  the  beginning  there 
had  been  pity  for  the  woman  who,  the  better 
everlastingly  to  parade  her  shame,  hid  her  face 
eternally  from  the  light  of  day;  and  in  possibly 
[  147  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


a  more  limited  circle  there  had  been  abundant 
pity  for  the  man  as  well.  Settling  down  to 
watch  the  issue  out,  the  town,  from  the  outset, 
had  respected  the  unbendable,  unbreakable 
fortitude  of  the  man,  and  respected,  also,  the 
indomitable  persistency  of  the  woman. 

For  a  variety  of  very  self-evident  reasons  no 
one  had  ever  or  would  ever  meddle  in  the  per 
sonal  affairs  of  Major  Foxmaster.  For  reasons 
that  were  equally  good,  though  perhaps  not 
so  easy  to  define  in  words,  none  meddled  with 
her  either.  Street  gamins  feared  to  jeer  her 
as  she  passed,  without  knowing  exactly  why 
they  feared. 

In  these  ten  years  the  breaks  in  the  strange 
relationship  had  been  few  and  short.  Once  a 
year,  on  an  average,  the  Major  made  short 
trips  back  to  Virginia,  presumably  upon  busi 
ness  pertaining  to  his  estate  and  his  invest 
ments.  Such  times  the  woman  was  not  seen 
abroad.  Once,  in  '79,  for  a  week,  and  once 
again,  just  following  the  great  blizzard  of  '81, 
she  was  missed  for  a  few  days;  and  people  won 
dered  whether  she  was  ailing  or  housebound,  or 
what.  For  those  days  the  Major  walked  with 
out  his  shadow.  Then  the  swathed  figure  re 
appeared,  tracking  him  about  as  before. 

Time  undeniably  was  working  its  changes 
with  Major  Foxmaster,  as  with  his  surround 
ings.  He  must  be  about  sixty  now;  but,  seeing 
him  for  the  first  time,  you  might  have  been  par- 
doned  for  setting  him  down  as  a  man  of  sev- 
[148] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 

enty  or  thereabouts — he  looked  it.  His  shoul 
ders,  which  formerly  he  carried  squared  back 
so  splendidly,  were  beginning  to  fold  in  upon 
the  casing  of  his  ribs.  His  hair  used  to  be 
black,  shot  with  white  hairs;  it  was  now  white, 
shot  with  a  few  black  hairs.  His  back  had  had 
a  hollow  in  it;  there  was  a  curve  hi  it  yet,  but 
the  curve  was  outward  instead  of  inward. 
When  a  man's  figure  develops  convex  lines 
where  there  used  to  be  concavities,  that  man 
is  getting  on;  and  the  Major  plainly  was  get 
ting  on  pretty  fast.  His  eyes,  which  remained 
dignifiedly  and  defiantly  scornful  of  all  the 
world,  and  of  all  the  world  might  think  and 
might  say,  nevertheless  were  filmed  over  the 
least  bit,  so  that  they  lost  something  of  their 
icy  blue  keenness.  His  face,  though,  with  the 
jaws  sinking  in  upon  the  shrunken  gums  and 
the  brows  growing  shaggier,  was  as  much  of  a 
mask  as  it  had  ever  been. 

What  was  true  of  Major  Foxmaster  was 
seemingly  not  true  of  her  who  followed  him. 
Within  the  flapping  shapelessness  of  her  dis 
guise  her  figure  showed  as  straight  and  supple 
as  in  the  beginning,  and  her  noiseless  step  was 
as  nimble  and  quick  as  ever  it  had  been.  And 
that  was  a  mighty  strange  thing  too.  It  was 
as  though  her  shroud  of  wrappings,  which  kept 
the  sunshine  and  the  wind  off  her,  kept  off  age 
too. 

This  very  same  thought  came  at  length  into 
Major  Foxmaster's  head.  It  took  lodgment 
[149] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


there  and  sprouted,  sending  out  roots  into  all 
the  odd  corners  of  his  mind.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  tell  why  or  how  he  got  this  notion,  or  ex 
actly  when.  It  is  for  me  merely  to  narrate  as 
briefly  as  may  be  the  progress  of  the  obsession 
and  its  consequences. 

Another  five  years  passed,  and  then  three, 
making  eight  more  on  top  of  the  first  ten. 
Major  Foxmaster  was  crowding  seventy;  he 
looked  eighty.  Men  and  women  who  had  been 
children  when  he  moved  out  from  Virginia  were 
themselves  almost  face  to  face  with  impending 
middle  age  and  had  children  of  their  own  grow 
ing  up,  who,  in  their  turn,  would  hear  the  story 
of  Major  Foxmaster's  shadow  and  bear  it  for 
ward  into  yet  another  generation.  The  stone 
copings  above  the  Gaunt  House  door  were 
sooty  black  with  the  accretions  of  decades;  for 
this  was  a  soft-coal  town,  and  factories,  with 
tall  chimneys  that  constantly  vomited  out 
greasy  black  smoke,  had  crept  up,  taking  the 
old  hotel  by  flank  and  by  rear.  The  broken 
shade  in  the  right-hand  lower  front  window 
of  the  old  Gresham  place,  across  the  way,  was 
gone  altogether,  having  parted  its  rotted  fabric 
from  its  decayed  fastenings;  so  the  bleak,  bare 
face  of  the  house  winked  with  one  dead  eye 
and  stared  with  the  other. 

The  crotchety  bay  mare  was  long  gone  to 
the  bone  yard.  Her  hide  was  chair  bottoms 
and  her  gristles  were  glue;  and  out  on  the  trot- 
[150] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 

ting  track  wealthy  young  bloods  of  the  town 
exercised  her  get  and  her  skittish  grand-get. 
The  Major  did  not  drive  a  harness  nag  any 
more — he  had  a  palsy  of  the  hands  and  a  stoop 
of  the  spine;  but  in  most  regards  he  adhered 
to  the  old  habits.  He  took  his  daily  constitu 
tionals — sometimes  alone — except,  of  course, 
for  the  tagging  black  shape  behind  him — 
oftener  with  the  octogenarian  Sherwan;  and  of 
evenings  he  played  his  poker  games  at  the 
Kenilworth  Club,  which,  after  the  way  of 
ultraconservative  clubs,  stood  fast  on  its  orig 
inal  site,  even  though  the  neighbourhood  about 
it  was  so  distressfully  altered.  His  heels  had 
quit  ringing  against  the  sidewalk;  instead,  his 
legs  lifted  tremulously  and  his  feet  felt  for  a 
purchase  on  the  earth  when  he  set  them  down. 
His  face  was  no  longer  chipped  grey  flint;  it 
was  a  chalk-white,  with  deep  lines  in  it.  The 
gold-headed  cane  of  ebony  wood,  which  he 
carried  always,  had  ceased  to  be  an  ornament 
to  his  gait  and  had  become  a  necessary  prop 
to  his  step.  His  jaws  sagged  in  until  there 
were  deep  recesses  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth; 
and  there,  in  those  little  hollow  places,  the 
spittle  would  accumulate  in  tiny  patches.  Pos 
sibly,  by  reason  of  the  bleary  casts  that  had 
overspread  them,  his  eyes — still  the  faithfully 
inscrutable  peepholes  of  his  brain — gave  no 
betrayal  of  the  racking  thoughts  behind  them. 
They  were  racking  thoughts  too.  The  delusion 
was  a  mania  now — a  besetting  mania,  feeding 

[151] 


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on  silence  and  isolation,  colouring  and  tincturing 
all  the  processes  of  his  intellect. 

By  years — so  he  reasoned  it  out  with  him 
self  in  every  waking  hour — by  years,  she  who 
bided  within  that  shuttered  house  over  the 
way  was  his  age,  or  near  it.  By  rights,  her 
draped  form  should  be  as  shrunken  and  warped 
as  his  own.  By  rights,  the  face  behind  that 
thick  black  veil  should  be  as  old  as  his,  and 
bleached,  moreover,  to  a  corpsey  paleness. 
Yet  the  furtive  glances  he  stole  over  his  shoul 
der  told  him  that  the  figure  behind  him  moved 
as  alertly  erect  as  ever  it  had;  that  its  move 
ments  had  the  same  sure  and  silent  swiftness. 

So  that,  after  a  while,  Major  Foxmaster 
began  to  think  things  that  no  entirely  sane 
man  has  any  business  thinking.  He  began  to 
say  to  himself  that  now  he  had  solved  the 
secret  which,  all  these  years,  had  been  kept 
from  his  ken.  A  curse  had  been  put  upon  him — 
that  was  it;  that  must  be  it!  Behind  that  veil 
was  no  face  old  and  sunken  and  wasted  as  his 
was,  but,  instead,  a  young,  plump  face,  with 
luminous  grey  eyes  set  in  it,  and  a  sweet,  full 
mouth,  and  about  it  wavings  of  lustrous,  rich 
brown  hair — the  face  of  the  girl  he  once  loved 
as  she  looked  in  the  days  before  he  quit  loving 
her. 

He  held  up  his  own  hands  before  his  watery 

eyes.      They   were   trembly,    wrinkled   hands, 

gnarled    in    their    knuckles,   corded    on    their 

backs.      They    were    the    colour    of    scorched 

[152] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


leather — the  texture  of  it  too.  But  hers  must 
be  the  plump  little  white  hands  he  remembered, 
with  rosy-pink  palms  and  bright,  pointed  nails. 
Before  a  long  mirror  in  his  dressing  room  he 
studied  himself — studied  his  bowed  back  and 
his  hunching  shoulders  and  his  shaky  shanks — 
and  all.  Her  figure,  inside  its  flapping  black 
draperies,  was  straight  as  an  arrow;  her  head 
poised  itself  firmly  upright  on  her  shoulders. 
That  much  at  least  he  knew;  so  if  that  much 
were  true,  why  was  not  the  rest  of  it  true 
too? 

It  was  not  fair!  According  to  his  lights  he 
had  fought  out  the  fight  with  only  such  weap 
ons  as  Nature  and  his  own  will  gave  him;  but 
the  Supreme  Handicapper  had  stacked  the 
cards  against  him.  He  was  bound  to  lose  the 
long,  long  race.  He  could  not  last  much  longer. 
He  could  feel  age  tugging  at  every  flabby 
muscle;  infirmity  was  forever  fingering  his 
tissues,  seeking  the  most  vulnerable  spot  at 
which  to  strike  in  at  him. 

He  would  lie  down  and  die.  And  not  until 
then — not  until  the  last  rattle  of  breath  had 
scaped  out  of  his  collapsing  windpipe;  not  until 
she,  still  triumphantly  active  and  alert  and 
youthful,  still  cloaked  and  gloved  and  hooded, 
had  followed  his  sapped,  empty  shell  to  the 
graveyard — would  she  surrender  and  shrivel 
into  her  rightful  semblance,  growing  old  and 
feeble  in  an  hour  or  in  a  day.  It  was  not  fair — 
this  conjury  business!  From  the  beginning  he 
[153] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


never  had  a  chance  to  win.  All  the  days  of 
his  manhood  he  had  walked  with  a  living  night 
mare.  Why,  in  dying,  should  he  be  doomed 
to  point  the  moral  of  a  living  ghost  tale? 

First  he  told  himself  it  could  not  be  true; 
that  it  was  a  hideous  imagination  born  of  his 
broodings.  This  was  the  fag-end  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  in  which  he  lived,  when  super 
natural  events  did  not  happen.  Then  he  told 
himself  it  must  be  true — the  testimony  before 
his  eyes  proved  the  fact  of  what  he  could  not 
see.  Then  something  happened  which,  as  far 
as  Major  Foxmaster  was  concerned,  settled  the 
issue. 

On  a  winter  night,  after  rough  weather,  the 
Major  came  feebly  out  of  the  Kenilworth  Club, 
groping  his  way  and  muttering  to  himself. 
This  habit  of  muttering  to  himself  was  one 
that  had  come  on  him  just  lately. 

There  were  patches  of  ice  upon  the  sidewalk, 
and  the  wind,  like  a  lazy  housewife,  had 
dusted  the  snow  back  into  corners  and  under 
projections.  Between  the  porticoes  of  the 
doorway  his  foot  slipped  on  one  of  these  little 
ice  patches.  He  threw  out  his  gloved  left  hand 
to  catch  at  some  support  and  his  fingers  closed 
on  her  black-clad  arm,  where  she  had  drawn 
herself  into  the  shelter  and  shadow  of  the  door- 
arch  to  await  his  appearance. 

For  the  first  time  in  nearly  fifty  years  he 
touched  her. 

He  jerked  his  hand  back  and  fled  aw^ay  at  a 
[154] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


staggering,  crippling  run;  and,  as  he  ran  to  hide 
himself  within  his  rooms,  in  panting  gulps  he 
blasphemed  the  name  of  his  Maker;  for  to  his 
feel  her  flesh,  through  the  thick  cloth  sleeve  on 
her  arm,  had  seemed  to  him  to  be  as  firm  and 
plump  as  it  had  felt  when  he  was  twenty-two 
and  she  was  twenty.  The  evidence  was  com 
plete. 

All  through  the  next  day  he  kept  himself 
behind  closed  doors,  wrestling  with  his  tor 
ments;  but  in  the  evening  old  Sherwan  came 
for  him  and  he  dressed  himself.  They  started 
out  together,  a  doddering,  tottering  twain; 
suggesting,  when  they  halted  for  a  moment 
to  rest  at  the  foot  of  the  office  stairs,  a  pair  of 
grey  locust  husks  from  which  age,  spider- 
fashion,  had  sucked  out  all  the  rich  juices  of 
health  and  strength;  suggesting,  when  they 
went  on  again,  a  pair  of  crawling  sick  beetles 
which,  though  sick,  still  could  crawl  a  little. 

Side  by  side  they  crossed  the  tarnished, 
shabby  old  lobby,  with  its  dumpings  of  dingy 
grey  pillars  and  its  red-plush  sofa  seats,  and, 
in  the  centre,  its  rotunda  mounting  to  the  roof, 
up  floor  by  floor,  in  spiral  rings  that  in  per 
spective  graduated  smaller  and  smaller,  like  an 
inverted  funnel;  and  side  by  side  they  issued 
forth  from  beneath  the  morguelike  copings  of 
the  outer  door  and  descended  the  Gaunt  House 
steps — Major  Foxmaster  feeling  ahead  of  him 
with  his  cane,  and  Judge  Sherwan  patting  his 
[155] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


left  breast  with  his  open  hand — just  as  Police 
man  Joel  Bosler,  now  dead  and  gone,  had  seen 
them  do  upon  many  another  such  evening  as 
this.  Promptly  and  inevitably  befell  another 
thing,  then,  which  likewise  the  late  deceased 
Bosler  had  witnessed  times  without  number. 

From  the  darker  space  beyond  the  corner 
lamp-post,  out  into  the  gassy  yellow  circle  of 
radiance,  appeared  the  straight,  gliding  black 
form,  advancing  on  silent,  padded  feet  and 
without  visible  effort,  relentlessly  to  follow 
after  them  wheresoever  they  might  choose  to  go. 

So,  then,  at  sight  of  the  familiar  apparition 
the  icy  shell  of  half  a  century  thawed  and 
broke  to  bits  and  was  washed  away  in  a  freshet 
of  agony;  and  to  his  one  friend,  for  one  mo 
ment,  Major  Foxmaster  bared  his  wrung  and 
tortured  soul.  He  threw  down  his  cane  and 
threw  up  his  arms. 

"Sherwan,"  he  shrieked  out,  "I  can't  stand 
it  any  longer — I  can't  stand  it!  It's  killing  me! 
I  must  look  at  the  face — I  must  know!" 

With  a  sudden  frenzied  energy  he  darted 
at  the  cloaked  shape.  It  hesitated,  shrinking 
back  from  his  onward  rush  as  though  daunted; 
but  he  fixed  his  clutching  fingers  in  the  crepe 
veil  and  tore  it  in  twisted  rags  from  the  front 
of  its  wearer,  and  the  light  shone  full  on  the 
face  revealed  beneath  the  close  black  hood  of 
the  bonnet.  .  .  .  He  gave  one  blubbery,  slob 
bered,  hideous  yell  and  fell  flat  at  the  base  of 

the  lamp-post. 

[156] 


BLACKER     THAN      SIN 


Old  Sherwan  saw  the  face  too.  Swollen  and 
strengthened  with  senile  rage,  he  seized  the 
figure  by  both  its  arms  and  shook  it. 

"You  hussy!  You  wench!  You  Jezebel! 
You  she-devil!"  he  howled  at  the  top  of  his 
cracked  voice,  and  rocked  his  prisoner  to  and 
fro.  "What's  this?  What  does  this  mean,  you 
hell  spawn?" 

A  dart  of  pain  nipped  at  his  diseased  heart 
then,  and  closed  his  throat.  For  a  moment, 
without  words,  they  struggled  together.  With 
a  heave  of  her  supple  arms  she  broke  his  hold. 
She  shoved  him  off  from  her  and  reared  back 
on  her  heels,  breathing  hard — a  full-blooded 
negress,  with  chalky  popeyes  and  thick,  pur 
plish  lips  that  curled  away  in  a  wide  snarl  from 
the  white  teeth,  and  a  skin  that  was  blacker 
than  sin. 

"Whut  does  hit  mean?"  she  answered;  and, 
through  stress  of  fear  and  mounting  hope  and 
exultation,  her  voice  rose  to  a  camp-meeting 
shout: 

"I  tells  you  whut  hit  means:  Hit  means  Ise 
Minnie  Brownell,  Ole  Miss*  cook.  Hit  means 
Ole  Miss  is  been  daid  'mos'  fo'teen  years — 
ever  sence  she  taken  down  sick  endurin'  de 
big  blizzard.  Hit  means  dat  w'en  she  lay  a- 
dyin'  she  put  de  promise  onto  me  to  bury 
her  in  secret;  an'  den  to  put  on  her  clo'es  an' 
to  f oiler,  walkin'  behine  dat  man,  daytime  an' 
nighttime,  twell  he  died.  Dat's  whut  hit 
means!" 

[157] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


She  sought  to  peer  past  him  and  her  tone 
sharpened  down,  fine  and  keen: 

"Is  he  daid?  Oh,  bless  de  good  Lawd 
A'mighty!  Is  he  daid?  'Cause,  ef  he's  daid, 
me  an'  Hennery,  w'ich  is  my  lawful  wedded 
husban',  we  kin  go  back  to  Furginia  an'  claim 
de  prop'ty  dat  Ole  Miss  lef  in  trust  to  come 
to  me  w'en  I  kin  prove  he's  daid.  Oh,  look, 
please,  suh,  mister,  and  see  ef  he  ain't  dead?" 

Old  Sherwan  ran  to  the  lamp-post  and 
dropped  down  on  both  his  knees,  and  shook 
his  friend  by  the  shoulders. 

"  Foxmaster ! "  he  called.  "  Foxmaster,  you're 
free!  You're  free!  I  tell  you,  you're  free! 
Foxmaster,  look  at  me!  Foxmaster,  do  you 
hear  me?  You're  free,  I  tell  you!" 

But  the  Major  did  not  hear  him.  The  Major 
was  flat  on  his  back,  with  his  arms  outstretched 
and  the  fingers  of  both  his  hands  gripped  in 
the  rags  of  a  black  crepe  veil ;  and  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  the  little  patches  of  spittle  bubbles 
were  drying  up.  The  Major  would  never  hear 
anything  again  in  this  world. 


[158] 


CHAPTER  V 
THE   EYES   OF   THE   WORLD 


IF  there  were  a  hundred  men  in  a  crowd 
and  Chester  K.  Pilkins  was  there  he  would 
be  the  hundredth  man.    I  like  that  intro 
duction.     If  I  wrote  a  book  about  him  I 
doubt  whether  I  could  sum  up  Mr.  Pilkins' 
personality   more   completely   than   already   I 
have  done  in  this  the  first  sentence  of  this  the 
first  paragraph  of  my  tale.     Nevertheless,   I 
shall  try. 

Card-indexing  him,  so  to  speak,  filling  in  the 
dotted  lines  after  the  fashion  pursued  by  a 
candidate  for  admission  to  Who's  Whosoever 
Can,  we  attain  this  result:  Name?  Chester 
K(irkham)  Pilkins;  born?  certainly;  parentage? 
one  father  and  one  mother;  lives?  only  in  a 
way  of  speaking;  married?  extensively  so;  busi 
ness?  better  than  it  was  during  the  panic  but 
not  so  good  as  it  might  be;  recreations?  read 
ing,  writing,  arithmetic  and  the  comic  supple 
ments;  clubs?  Prospect  Slope  Pressing,  Montauk 
Chess,  Checkers  and  Whist,  King's  County 
[159] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Civic  Reform  and  Improvement;  religion?  twice 
on  Sunday,  rarely  on  week-days;  politics?  what 
ever  is  the  rule;  height?  sub-average;  weight? 
less  than  sub-average;  hair?  same  as  eyes;  eyes? 
same  as  hair;  complexion?  variable,  but  in 
clining  to  be  fair,  and  warmer  in  moments  of 
embarrassment;  special  distinguishing  charac 
teristics?  Oh,  say,  what's  the  use? 

This  would  apply  to  Chester  K.  Pilkins  as 
once  he  was,  not  as  now  he  is.  For  there 
has  been  a  change.  As  will  develop.  But  at 
the  time  when  we  begin  our  study  of  him  Mr. 
Pilkins  resided  in  a  simple  and  unostentatious 
manner  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  on  one  of  those 
streets  which  are  named  for  semi-tropical  flow 
ering  shrubs  for  the  same  reason  that  hunting 
dogs  are  named  for  Greek  goddesses  and  race 
horses  for  United  States  senators  and  tramp 
steamers  for  estimable  maiden  ladies.  In  a 
small,  neat  house,  almost  entirely  surrounded 
by  rubber  plants,  he  lived  with  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Gertrude  Maud  Pilkins.  This  phraseology  is 
by  deliberate  intent.  His  wife  did  not  live 
with  him.  He  lived  with  her.  To  have  re- 
referred  to  this  lady  as  his  better  half  would  be 
dealing  in  improper  fractions.  At  the  very 
lowest  computation  possible,  she  was  his  better 
eight-tenths. 

By  profession  he  was  an  expert  bookkeeper, 

in  the  employ  of  a  firm  doing  a  large  bond  and 

stock  brokerage  business  on  the  sinful  or  Man- 

hattan  shore  of  the  East  River.     The  tragedy 

[160] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

and  the  comedy,  the  sordid  romance  and  the 
petty  pathos  of  Wall  Street  rolled  in  an  un 
heeded  torrent  over  his  head  as  he,  submerged 
deep  in  the  pages  of  his  ledgers,  sat  all  day 
long  dotting  his  i's  and  crossing  his  t's,  adding 
his  columns  and  finding  his  totals.  Sometimes 
of  evenings  he  stayed  on  to  do  special  account 
ing  jobs  for  smaller  concerns  in  need  of  his 
professional  services. 

Otherwise,  when  five  o'clock  came  he  took 
off  his  little  green-baize  apron,  his  green  eye- 
shade  and  his  black  calico  sleeve  protectors, 
slipped  on  his  detachable  cuffs,  his  hat  and  his 
coat,  took  his  umbrella  in  hand,  and  leaving 
New  York  and  its  wicked,  wanton  ways  be 
hind  him,  he  joined  with  half  a  million  other 
struggling  human  molecules  in  the  evening 
bridge  crush — that  same  bridge  crush  of  which 
the  metropolis  is  so  justly  ashamed  and  so 
properly  proud — and  was  presently  at  home 
in  Brooklyn,  which  is  a  peaceful  country  land 
scape,  pastoral  in  all  its  instincts,  but  grown 
up  quite  thickly  with  brick  and  mortar.  There 
he  gave  his  evenings  to  the  society  of  his  wife, 
to  the  chess  problems  printed  from  time  to 
time  in  the  Eagle,  and  to  reading  his  .encyclope 
dia,  which  had  been  purchased  on  the  instal 
ment  plan,  at  the  rate  of  so  much  down,  so 
much  a  week.  It  seemed  probable  that  Mr. 
Pilkins  would  finish  reading  his  encyclopedia 
before  he  finished  paying  for  it,  which  is  more 
than  most  of  us  can  say,  however  literary  our 
[161] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


aims  and  aspirations.  He  liked  to  pick  up  a 
volume  for  half  an  hour  or  so  immediately  prior 
to  his  retiring.  He  said  it  rested  him.  He  had 
got  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  very  interesting 
one  named  Gib  to  Jibe.  Once  in  a  while,  though, 
the  Pilkinses  went  out  in  society.  That  is  to 
say,  Mrs.  Pilkins  went,  and  took  Mr.  Pilkins 
with  her. 

I  would  not  have  you  believe  from  all  this 
that  Mr.  Pilkins  entertained  no  views  of  his 
own  on  current  topics.  His  convictions  upon 
certain  heads  were  most  definite  and  settled, 
and  on  favourable  occasions  openly  he  voiced 
them.  Among  other  things  he  believed  that 
if  somebody  would  only  start  up  an  old-time 
minstrel  show,  such  as  we  used  to  see  when  we 
were  boys,  it  would  make  a  fortune;  that  the 
newspapers  printed  a  pack  of  lies  every  day 
because  they  had  to  have  something  to  fill  up 
their  columns;  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
grafting  going  on  and  something  should  be 
done  about  it  right  away;  that  the  winters  were 
changing,  because  of  the  Gulf  Stream  or  some 
thing,  so  you  couldn't  depend  on  the  climate 
any  more;  that  owing  to  the  high  cost  of  living 
it  was  practically  impossible  to  get  a  good 
sixty -cent  table-d'hote  dinner  nowadays;  and 
that  Mrs.  Pilkins  was  in  many  respects  a  very 
unusual  woman. 

She  was  all  of  that.  Get  Gertrude  Maud. 
She  looms  before  us,  large  and  full  of  figure, 
majestic  of  bearing  and  fair  of  face,  her  general 
[  162  ] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

aspect  indeed  a  very  general  aspect.  She  was 
competent  by  inheritance  and  domineering  by 
instinct.  It  was  common  talk  in  the  circle  in 
which  Gertrude  Maud  moved,  towing  Chester 
behind  her,  that  she  had  Bohemian  leanings. 
True,  she  had  never  smoked  a  cigarette  in  all 
her  blameless  life,  nor  touched  her  lips  to  strong 
drink;  nor  yet  had  she  patronised  studio  teas 
and  attended  the  indoor  anarchistic  revels  of 
the  parlour-radicals  established  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  Washington  Square.  Rather  she 
betrayed  her  Bohemian  trend  by  what  she  wore 
than  by  what  she  did. 

She  was  addicted  to  festooning  about  her 
neck  large  polished  beads  of  the  more  popular 
hard  woods  and  upon  her  bosom  plaquelike 
articles  which  apparently  had  originated  with 
a  skilled  cabinetmaker  and  joiner.  Her  wrists 
and  her  forearms  she  adorned  with  art-work 
bracelets  of  hammered  metals  set  with  large 
muddy-looking  stones — almost  anything  that 
would  look  well  in  a  collection  of  geological 
specimens  was,  in  the  eyes  of  Gertrude  Maud, 
jewelry.  Her  costumes  of  state,  displayed  in 
connection  with  these  ornamentations  culled 
from  the  vegetable  and  mineral  kingdoms,  were 
cut  square  in  the  neck  and  extended  straight 
up  and  down,  being  ungirthed  at  the  waistline 
but  set  off  with  red  and  blue  edgings,  after 
the  style  of  fancy  tea  towels.  As  her  woman 
friends  often  remarked  in  tones  of  admiration, 
she  had  never  worn  stays  in  her  life,  and  yet 
[163] 


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just  look  what  a  figure  she  had!  Sometimes, 
the  weather  being  favourable,  she  wore  sandals. 

Excelling,  as  she  did,  in  the  social  graces, 
Mrs.  Pilkins  was  greatly  in  demand  for  neigh 
bourhood  parties.  She  was  an  amateur  palmist 
of  great  note.  At  a  suitable  time  in  the  course 
of  the  evening's  festivities  she  would  possess 
herself  of  the  left  hand  of  some  gentleman  or 
lady  present — usually  a  gentleman's  hand — and 
holding  it  palm  upward,  she  would  gently 
massage  its  surface  and  then  begin  uttering 
little  gasping  sounds  betokening  intense  sur 
prise  and  gratification. 

"Do  you  know,  really,"  she  would  say  when 
she  had  in  part  recovered,  such  being  the  reg 
ular  formula,  "I  don't  believe  in  all  my  ex 
perience  I  hardly  ever  saw  such  an  interesting 
hand?" 

Peering  close  and  ever  closer  she  would  trace 
out  the  past,  the  present  and  the  future,  seeing 
strange  influences  coming  into  the  other's  life, 
and  long  journeys  and  dark  strangers;  and  pres 
ently,  with  a  startled  cry,  she  would  pounce 
upon  the  heart  line,  and  then,  believe  me,  she 
would  find  out  things  worth  telling!  And  if 
the  owner  of  the  captive  hand  chanced  to  be  a 
young  man  whose  life  was  so  exemplary  as  to 
be  downright  painful,  he  would  endeavour  by 
his  air  to  convey  the  impression  that  the  fence 
round  the  South  Flatbush  Young  Ladies'  Sem 
inary  had  been  builded  extra  high  and  extra 
strong  especially  on  his  dangerous  account. 
[164] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

Hardly  could  the  rest  wait  to  have  Mrs.  Pilkins 
read  their  palms  too.  And  while  this  went  on, 
Mr.  Pilkins  would  be  hanging  about  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  group,  feeling  very  null  and 
void.  Really  his  only  excuse  for  being  there 
at  all  was  that  Gertrude  Maud  needed  some  one 
to  get  her  rubbers  off  and  on  and  to  bring  her 
home. 

Naturally,  as  one  adept  in  the  divination  of 
the  dearest  characteristics  of  men  and  women, 
and  also  because  she  was  a  wife  and  subject 
to  the  common  delusions  of  wives  as  a  class, 
Mrs.  Pilkins  felt  she  knew  Chester — felt  she 
could  read  him  like  a  book.  This  only  goes  to 
show  how  wrong  a  woman  and  a  wife  can  be. 
For  behind  the  mild  and  pinkish  mask  which 
he  showed  to  her  and  to  creation  at  large 
Chester  Pilkins  nursed  unsuspected  ambitions, 
undreamed-of  dreams.  He  hankered  with  a 
hankering  which  was  almost  a  pain  to  stand  for 
once  anyhow  before  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
Within  him  a  secret  fire  seethed;  he  ached  and 
glowed  with  it,  and  yet  none  knew  of  it.  He 
would  have  died  in  his  tracks  before  he  voiced 
his  burning  desire  to  any  human  being,  yet 
constantly  it  abode  with  him.  He  was  tired — 
oh,  so  tired — of  being  merely  one  of  the  six 
millions.  He  craved  to  be  one  among  the  six 
millions.  He  peaked  and  he  pined  with  it. 

This  longing  is  commoner  probably  among 
city  dwellers  than  among  those  who  live  in  the 
smaller  settlements  of  men,  and  for  that  there 
[165] 


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is,  as  I  believe,  a  good  and  sufficient  reason. 
In  the  little  community  there  are  no  nobodies. 
Anybody  is  somebody.  But  where  the  multi 
tude  is  close-packed,  nearly  anybody  is  every 
body  and  nearly  everybody  is  anybody.  The 
greater  the  number  within  a  given  space,  the 
fewer  are  there  available  for  purposes  of  pomp, 
prominence  and  publicity.  A  few  stand  out 
above  the  ruck;  the  rest  make  up  the  uncon- 
sidered  mass — mute,  inglorious  and,  except 
briefly  in  the  census  figures,  unsung.  And 
Chester  K.  Pilkins  yearned  to  stand  out. 

Twice  in  his  life  he  had  thought  he  was  about 
to  attain  conspicuousness  and  be  pointed  out 
by  men  as  something  other  than  Mrs.  Chester 
K.  Pilkins'  husband.  They  were  narrow  es 
capes,  both  of  them.  Because  each  was  such 
a  narrow  escape,  that  made  the  disappoint 
ment  all  the  greater.  Once  on  a  rainy,  blowy 
evening,  when  the  narrow  gore  of  Nassau  Street 
where  it  debouches  into  Park  Row  was  a  mush 
room  bed  of  wet,  black  umbrella  tops  and  the 
bridge  crush  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bridge  took 
on  an  added  frenzy,  a  taxicab,  driven  at  most 
unlawful  speed,  bored  through  the  fringes  of 
the  press,  knocked  a  man  galley  west,  and, 
never  checking  its  gait,  fled  into  the  shelter 
of  the  L  pillars  toward  Chatham  Square  and 
was  gone  from  sight  before  more  than  six  or 
eight  spectators  could  get  its  license  numbers 
wrong. 

The  man  was  Chester  K.  Pilkins.  He  was 
[166] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

butted  violently  from  behind  as  he  fought  his 
way  across  the  asphalt,  with  his  collar  turned 
up  against  the  wet  gusts  and  his  thoughts  in 
tent  on  getting  a  seat  aboard  the  transpontine 
car.  He  never  had  gotten  a  seat  aboard  it  yet, 
but  there  was  no  telling  when  he  might.  Im 
mediately  on  being  struck  he  was  projected 
some  yards  through  space  in  a  galley-westerly 
direction,  and  when  he  struck  he  rolled  over 
and  over  in  the  mud,  greatly  to  the  detriment 
of  a  neat  black  overcoat  buttoning  under  a  fly 
front,  and  with  silk  facings  upon  the  lapels, 
then  in  its  third  season  of  service.  Kind  hands 
— very  many  of  them — lifted  him  up  from 
where  he  lay  with  a  long  scratch  on  his  nose 
and  a  passing  delusion  within  his  brain  that 
he  had  taken  a  long  rough  trip  somewhere  and 
was  coming  back  by  slow  stages.  Sympathetic 
persons,  about  equally  divided  in  their  opinion 
as  to  whether  most  of  his  bones  were  or  were 
not  broken,  bore  him  with  all  gentleness  into 
the  drug  store  in  the  World  Building,  propped 
him  against  a  show  case,  and  packed  about  him 
in  a  dense  mass,  those  good  Samaritans  in  the 
front  row  calling  upon  those  behind  them  to 
stand  back,  in  heaven's  name,  and  give  him  a 
little  air.  There  a  kindly  disposed  bootblack 
brushed  him  off,  and  a  soda-water  clerk  offered 
him  malted  milk  with  a  dash  of  nerve  tonic  in 
it,  and  a  policeman,  using  a  stubby  lead  pencil, 
took  down  his  name  and  address  in  a  little  red 
book,  and  a  blithe  young  interne  came  on  the 


LOCAL     COLOR 


tail  of  an  ambulance  with  a  kit  of  surgical 
tools  in  his  hand,  and  presently  departed,  ob 
viously  disappointed  to  find  there  was  no  need 
of  a  capital  operation  to  be  performed  forth 
with  upon  the  spot;  and,  altogether,  the  victim 
was  made  much  of.  A  little  later,  somewhat 
shaken  and  sore  but  not  materially  damaged, 
he  rode  home — standing  up  and  swaying  in  the 
aisle,  as  was  customary — holding  with  one  hand 
to  a  strap  and  with  the  other  at  intervals  ca 
ressing  his  wounded  nose. 

Next  morning  he  bought  all  the  morning 
papers  printed  in  English — there  are  still  a 
considerable  number  of  morning  papers  in 
Greater  New  York  that  are  printed  in  English 
— and  with  a  queer,  strangled  little  beat  of 
anticipatory  pride  in  his  throat-pulse  he 
searched  assiduously  through  all  of  them,  page 
by  page  and  heading  by  heading,  for  the  ac 
count  of  his  accident.  He  regarded  that  acci 
dent  in  a  proprietary  sense.  If  it  wasn't  his, 
whose  then  was  it?  Only  one  paper  out  of  all 
the  lot  had  seen  fit  to  mention  the  affair.  In 
a  column  captioned  Small  Brevities  he  found 
at  last  a  single,  miserable,  puny  six-line  para 
graph  to  the  effect  that  a  pedestrian — pedes 
trian,  mind  you! — giving  his  name  as  Charles 
Piffles,  had  been  knocked  down  by  an  uniden 
tified  automobile,  and  after  having  been  given 
first-aid  treatment  by  Patrolman  Roger  P. 
Dugan,  of  the  Peck's  Slip  Station,  and  receiving 
further  attention  at  the  hands  of  Ambulance 
[168] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

Surgeon  Max  Loeb,  who  came  from  Battery 
Place  Hospital  in  response  to  a  call,  was  able 
to  go  to  his  home,  at  such  and  such  an  address, 
borough  of  Brooklyn.  And  even  the  house 
number  as  set  down  was  incorrect.  From  that 
hour  dated  Chester  K.  Pilkins'  firm  and  bitter 
belief  in  the  untrustworthiness  of  the  metro 
politan  press. 

The  other  time  was  when  he  was  drawn  on  a 
panel  for  jury  duty  in  the  trial  of  a  very  fash 
ionable  and  influential  murderer.  A  hundred 
householders  were  netted  in  that  venire,  and 
of  the  number  I  daresay  Chester  Pilkins  was 
the  hundredth.  With  the  ninety  and  nine 
others  he  reported  at  a  given  hour  at  a  given 
courtroom,  and  there  for  two  days  he  waited 
while  slowly  the  yawning  jury  box  filled  with 
retired  real-estate  dealers  and  jobbers  in  white 
goods.  Finally  his  own  name  was  reached  and 
the  clerk  called  it  out  loudly  and  clearly. 
Shaking  the  least  bit  in  his  knees  and  gulping 
hard  to  keep  his  Adam's  apple  inside  his  collar, 
Mr.  Pilkins  took  the  stand  and  nervously 
pledged  himself  truthfully  to  answer  all  such 
questions  as  might  be  put  to  him  touching  on 
his  qualifications  for  service  in  the  case  now  on 
trial.  He  did  answer  them  truthfully;  more 
than  that,  he  answered  them  satisfactorily.  He 
had  no  conscientious  scruples  against  the  in 
fliction  of  capital  punishment  for  the  crime  of 
murder  in  the  first  degree.  From  his  readings 
of  the  public  prints  he  had  formed  no  set  and 
[169] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


definite  opinion  as  to  the  guilt  or  innocence 
of  the  accused.  He  was  not  personally  ac 
quainted  with  the  deceased,  with  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar,  with  the  attorneys  upon  either  side, 
with  the  officers  who  had  made  the  arrest, 
with  the  coroner's  physician  who  had  conducted 
the  autopsy,  or  with  any  one  connected  in  any 
way  with  the  case.  He  professed  himself  as 
willing  to  be  guided  by  His  Honour  on  the 
bench  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  laws  of 
evidence,  while  exclusively  reserving  the  right 
to  be  his  own  judge  of  the  weight  and  value  of 
the  testimony  itself.  So  far,  so  good. 

The  district  attorney  nodded  briefly.  The 
lawyers  for  the  murderer,  confabbing  with  their 
heads  together,  gave  no  sign  of  demur.  The 
presiding  justice,  a  large  man,  heavily  mous- 
tached  and  with  more  chins  than  he  could  pos 
sibly  need,  who  had  been  taking  a  light  nap, 
was  aroused  by  the  hush  which  now  befell  and 
sat  up,  rustling  in  his  black  silk  sleeping 
gown.[ 

Behind  Chester.  Pilkins'  waistcoat  Chester 
Pilkins'  heart  gave  a  little  gratified  jump.  He 
was  about  to  be  accepted;  he  would  be  in  the 
papers.  He  saw  a  sketch  artist,  who  sat  just 
beyond  the  rail,  squint  at  him  from  under  his 
eyebrows  and  lower  a  pencil  to  a  scratch  pad 
which  was  poised  upon  a  right  kneecap.  A 
picture  would  be  published.  What  mattered 
it  though  this  picture  would  surely  look  ex- 
cessively  unlike  him?  Would  not  the  portrait 
[170] 


THE      EYES      OF      THE      WORLD 

be  suitably  labelled?  Mentally  he  visualised 
the  precious  lines: 

Juror  No.  9— Chester  K.  Pilkins,  No.  373 
Japonica  Avenue;  certified  accountant;  39; 
married;  no  children. 

From  somewhere  back  of  the  moustache  His 
Honour's  voice  was  heard  rumbling  forth  hoarse- 

ly: 

"  If-no-objections-f  rom-either-side-let-  juror- 
be-sworn." 

At  Mr.  Pilkins'  side  appeared  a  court  func 
tionary  bearing  a  grimed  and  venerable  volume 
containing  many  great  truths  upon  its  insides 
and  many  hungry  germs  upon  its  outside.  Mr. 
Pilkins  arose  to  his  feet  and  stretched  forth  a 
slightly  tremulous  hand  to  rest  it  upon  The 
Book.  In  this  moment  he  endeavoured  to  ap 
pear  in  every  outward  aspect  the  zealous  citi 
zen,  inspired  solely  by  a  sense  of  his  obligations 
to  himself  and  to  the  state.  A  sort  of  Old 
Roman  pose  it  was.  And  in  that  same  moment 
the  blow  fell  and  the  alabaster  vase  was  shat 
tered. 

Senior  counsel  for  the  defence — the  one  with 
the  long  frock  coat  and  the  sobbing  catch  in 
his  voice — bobbed  up  from  where  he  sat. 

"Defence-excuses-this-gentleman,"  he  grunt 
ed,  all  in  one  word,  and  sat  down  again. 

The  artist  scratched  out  a  shadowy  outline 

of  the  lobe  of  Mr.  Pilkins'  left  ear  and  the 

southeastern    slope  of  his   skull — for    already 

this   talented   draftsman   had   progressed   thus 

[171] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


far  with  the  portrait — and  in  less  than  no  time 
our  Mr.  Pilkins,  surcharged  now  with  a  sense 
of  injury  and  vaguely  feeling  that  somehow 
his  personal  honour  had  been  impugned,  was 
being  waved  away  from  the  stand  to  make  room 
for  a  smallish,  darkish  gentleman  of  a  Semitic 
aspect.  With  his  thoughts  in  such  turmoil  that 
he  forgot  to  take  with  him  the  bone-handled 
umbrella  which  he  had  carried  for  two  years 
and  better,  he  left  the  courtroom. 

Really,  though,  he  never  had  a  chance.  The 
defence  had  expended  upon  him  one  of  its 
dwindling  store  of  peremptory  challenges  be 
cause  in  the  moment  of  being  sworn  he  ap 
peared  a  person  of  so  stern  and  uncompromising 
an  exterior.  "Besides,"  the  senior  counsel  had 
whispered  hurriedly  to  his  associates — "be 
sides,  he  seems  so  blamed  anxious  to  serve. 
Bad  sign — better  let  him  go."  And  so  they 
let  him  go.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  had  he 
worn  a  look  less  determined  the  district  at 
torney  would  have  challenged  him  on  the  sus 
picion  of  being  too  kind-hearted.  The  jury 
system  is  a  priceless  heritage  of  our  forefathers, 
and  one  of  the  safeguards  of  our  liberties,  but 
we  do  things  with  it  of  which  I  sometimes 
think  the  forefathers  never  dreamed. 

Thus,  with  its  periods  of  hopefulness  and  its 
periods  of  despairing,  life  for  our  hero  rolled 
on  after  the  placid  fashion  of  bucolic  Brooklyn, 
adrowse  among  its  mortary  dells  and  its  ma- 
sonry  dingles,  until  there  came  the  year  1915 
[172] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

A.  D.  and  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  the  One  Hundred  and  I  forget  which. 
For  long  the  Pilkinses  had  been  saving  up  to 
take  a  trip  to  Europe,  Chester  particularly  de 
siring  to  view  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the 
Continent,  about  which  Volume  Cad  to  Eve  of 
his  encyclopedia  discoursed  at  great  length  and 
most  entertainingly.  For  her  part,  Mrs.  Ches 
ter  intended  to  mingle  in  the  gay  life  of  the 
artistic  set  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  then 
come  home  and  tell  about  it. 

By  the  summer  of  1914  there  was  laid  by  a  ' 
sum  sufficient  to  pay  all  proper  costs  of  the 
tour.  And  then,  with  unpardonable  inconsid- 
erateness,  this  war  had  to  go  and  break  out. 
The  war  disagreeably  continuing,  Europe  was 
quite  out  of  the  question.  If  Europe  must 
have  a  war  it  couldn't  have  the  Pilkinses.  So 
in  the  early  spring  of  the  following  year,  the 
combined'  thoughts  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pilkins 
turned  longingly  westward.  Mr.  Pilkins  had 
never  been  beyond  Buffalo  but  once;  that  was 
when,  on  their  wedding  tour,  they  went  to 
Niagara  Falls.  Mrs.  Pilkins  once  had  visited 
her  married  sister  residing  in  Xenia,  Ohio. 
Such  portion  of  the  Great  West  as  lay  beyond 
Xenia  was  to  her  as  a  folded  scroll.  So  West 
ward  Ho!  it  was. 

I  deem  it  to  have  been  eminently  character 
istic  of  Chester  that  he  spent  three  evenings 
preparing,  with  the  aid  of  timetables,  descrip- 
tive  folders  furnished  by  a  genial  and  accom- 
[173] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


modating  ticket  agency  and  a  condensed  hotel 
directory,  a  complete  schedule  of  their  projected 
itinerary,  including  the  times  of  arrivals  and  de 
partures  of  trains,  stop-overs,  connections,  cab 
and  bus  fares,  hotel  rates,  baggage  regulations, 
and  what  not.  Opposite  the  name  of  one  junc 
tion  town  beyond  the  Rockies  he  even  set 
down  a  marginal  note:  "At  this  point  see 
Great  American  Desert." 

Leaving  Chicago  on  the  second  lap  of  the 
outbound  half  of  the  momentous  journey,  they 
took  a  section  in  a  sleeping  car  named  appro 
priately  for  a  Hindu  deity.  For  once  in  his 
life  Chester  was  above  his  wife,  where  he  could 
look  down  upon  her.  But  that  was  in  the  night 
time,  when  he  lodged  in  the  upper.  Daytimes 
he  reverted  to  his  original  and  regular  state, 
becoming  again  one  of  the  submerged  tenth  of 
one-tenth.  In  the  dining  car  Mrs.  Pilkins  se 
lected  the  dishes  and  gave  the  orders,  and  he, 
submissive  as  the  tapeworm,  ate  of  what  was 
put  before  him,  asking  no  questions.  In  the 
club  car,  among  fellow  travellers  of  his  own  sex, 
he  was  as  one  set  apart.  They  talked  over 
him  and  round  him  and  if  needs  be  through 
him  to  one  another;  and  when,  essaying  to  be 
heard  upon  the  topics  of  the  day,  then  under 
discussion,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  some  individual 
of  a  more  commanding  personality — the  mem 
ber  of  the  legislature  from  Michigan  or  the 
leading  osteopath  of  Council  Bluffs — would  lift 
his  voice  yet  higher,  wiping  him  out  as  com- 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

pletely  as  though  he  had  been  a  naught  done 
in  smudged  chalk  upon  a  blackboard.  After 
all,  life  in  the  free  and  boundless  West  threat 
ened  to  become  for  him  what  life  in  cribbed, 
cabined  and  confined  Brooklyn  had  been;  this 
was  the  distressing  reflection  which  frequently 
recurred  to  him  as  he  retired  all  squelched  and 
muted  from  the  unequal  struggle,  and  it  made 
his  thoughts  dark  with  melancholy.  Was  there 
in  all  this  wide  continent  no  room  for  true 
worth  when  habited  in  native  modesty? 

In  time  they  reached  a  certain  distinguished 
city  of  the  Coast,  nestling  amid  its  everlasting 
verdure  and  real-estate  boomers.  But  in  the 
rainless  season  the  verdure  shows  an  inclina 
tion  to  dry  up.  However,  this  was  in  the  ver 
dant  springtime,  when  Nature  everywhere,  and 
especially  in  California,  is  gladsome  and  all- 
luxuriant.  From  the  station  a  bus  carried 
them  through  thriving  suburbs  to  a  large  tourist 
hotel  built  Spanish  Mission  style  and  run  Amer 
ican  plan.  The  young  man  behind  the  clerk's 
desk  took  one  prognostic  look  at  Chester  as 
Chester  registered,  and  reached  for  a  certain 
key,  but  while  in  the  act  of  so  doing  caught  a 
better  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Chester,  and,  changing 
his  mind,  gave  them  a  very  much  better  room 
at  the  same  price.  There  was  something  about 
Mrs.  Pilkins. 

That  evening,  entering  the  dining-room, 
which  was  a  great,  soft-pine  Sahara  of  a  place 
dotted  at  regular  intervals  with  circular  oases 
[175] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


called  tables,  each  flowing  with  ice  water  and 
abounding  in  celery,  in  the  native  ripe  olives 
shining  in  their  own  oils,  and  in  yellow  poppy 
blossoms  in  vases,  the  Pilkinses  instantly  and 
intuitively  discovered  that  they  had  been  ush 
ered  into  a  circle  new  to  them.  Some  of  the 
diners  in  sight  were  plainly,  like  themselves, 
tourists,  transients,  fly-by-night  sightseers  from 
the  East,  here  to-day  and  going  to-morrow. 
But  sundry  others  present,  being  those  who 
had  the  look  about  them  of  regular  guests, 
were  somehow  different.  Without  being  told, 
the  newcomers  at  once  divined  that  they  were 
in  a  haunt  of  the  moving-picture  folk,  and  also 
by  the  same  processes  of  instinctive  discern 
ment  were  informed  of  another  thing:  As  be 
tween  the  actors  newly  recruited  from  that 
realm  of  art  which  persons  of  a  reminiscent 
turn  of  mind  are  beginning  to  speak  of  as  the 
spoken  drama,  and  the  actors  who  had  been 
bred  up  and  developed  by  its  one-time  little 
half-sister,  the  moving-picture  game,  a  classify 
ing  and  separating  distinction  existed.  It  was 
a  distinction  not  definable  in  words,  perhaps; 
nevertheless,  it  was  as  apparent  there  in  that 
dining-room  as  elsewhere.  You  know  how  the 
thing  goes  in  other  lines  of  allied  industries? 
Take  two  agents  now — a  road  agent,  let  us  say, 
and  a  book  agent.  Both  are  agents;  both  be 
long  to  the  predatory  group;  both  ply  their 
trades  upon  the  highway  with  utter  strangers 
for  their  chosen  prey;  and  yet  in  the  first  flash 
[176] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

we  can  tell  a  book  agent  from  a  road  agent,  and 
vice  versa.  So  it  was  with  these  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  upon  whom  Chester  K.  Pilkins  and  wife 
— beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Chester  K.  Pilkins  and  hus 
band — now  gazed. 

At  the  table  to  which  a  post-graduate  head- 
waitress  escorted  them  and  there  surrendered 
them  into  the  temporary  keeping  of  a  sopho 
more  side-waitress  there  sat,  in  a  dinner  coat, 
a  young  man  of  most  personable  appearance 
and  address,  with  whom,  as  speedily  developed, 
it  was  not  hard  to  become  acquainted,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  easy.  Almost  as  soon  as  the 
Pilkinses  were  seated  he  broke  through  the 
film  ice  of  formality  by  remarking  that  South 
ern  California  was,  on  the  whole,  a  wonderful 
country,  was  it  not?  Speaking  as  one,  or  as 
one  and  a  fractional  part  of  another,  they 
agreed  with  him.  Did  it  not  possess  a  wonder 
ful  climate?  It  did.  And  so  on  and  so  forth. 
You  know  how  one  of  these  conversations  grows, 
expands  and  progresses. 

Presently  there  were  mutual  introductions 
across  the  fronded  celery  and  the  self -lubricating 
ripe  olive.  This  accomplished,  Mr.  Pilkins 
was  upon  the  point  of  stating  that  he  was  in 
the  accounting  line,  when  their  new  acquaint 
ance,  evidently  holding  such  a  detail  to  be  of 
no  great  consequence,  broke  in  upon  him  with 
a  politely  murmured  "Excuse  me"  and  pro 
ceeded  to  speak  of  a  vastly  more  interesting 
subject.  His  name,  as  they  already  knew,  was 
[177] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Mr.  Royal  Harcourt.  He  was  of  the  theatrical 
profession,  a  thing  they  already  had  guessed. 
He  told  them  more — much  more. 

It  would  seem  that  for  long  he  had  withstood 
the  blandishments  and  importunities  of  the 
moving-picture  producers,  standing,  as  it  were, 
aloof  from  them  and  all  their  kind,  holding  ever 
that  the  true  artist  should  remain  ever  the  true 
artist,  no  matter  how  great  the  financial  temp 
tation  to  enter  the  domain  of  the  silent  play 
might  be.  But  since  so  many  of  equal  import 
ance  in  the  profession  had  gone  into  the  pic 
tures — and  besides,  after  all  was  said  and  done, 
did  not  the  pictures  cater  educationally  to  a 
great  number  of  doubtlessly  worthy  persons 
whose  opportunity  for  acquaintance  with  the 
best  work  of  the  legitimate  stage  was  neces 
sarily  limited  and  curtailed? — well,  any  way,  to 
make  a  long  story  no  longer,  he,  Mr.  Royal 
Harcourt,  had  gone  into  the  pictures  himself, 
and  here  he  was.  Taking  it  that  he  had  been 
appealed  to,  Mr.  Pilkins  nodded  in  affirmation 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  step,  and  started  to  speak. 
"Excuse  me,  please,"  said  Mr.  Harcourt  cour 
teously  but  firmly.  Plainly  Mr.  Harcourt  was  not 
yet  done.  He  resumed.  One  who  had  a  follow 
ing  might  always  return  to  the  legitimate  finding 
that  following  unimpaired.  Meanwhile,  the  pic 
ture  business  provided  reasonably  pleasant  em 
ployment  at  a  most  attractive  remuneration. 

"So,  as  I  said  just  now,"  went  on  Mr.  Har- 
court,  "here  I  am  and  here  you  find  me.  I 
[178] 


THE      EYES      OF      THE      WORLD 

may  tell  you  that  I  am  specially  engaged  for 
the  filming  of  that  popular  play,  The  Prince 
of  the  Desert,  which  the  Ziegler  Company  is 
now  making  here  at  its  studios.  My  honorarium 
— this,  of  course,  is  in  confidence — my  honora 
rium  for  this  is  eight  hundred  dollars  a  week." 
He  glanced  at  their  faces.  "In  fact,  strictly 
between  ourselves,  nine  hundred  and  fifty." 
And  with  a  polished  finger  nail  Mr.  Harcourt 
flicked  an  imaginary  bit  of  fluff  from  a  fluffless 
coat  lapel. 

Awe  descended  upon  the  respective  souls  of 
his  listeners,  and  there  lingered. 

"And  of  course  for  that — that  figure — you 
play  the  leading  part?"  Mrs.  Pilkins  put  the 
question  almost  reverently. 

A  trace,  just  a  trace,  of  unconscious  bitter 
ness  trickled  into  their  tablemate's  voice  as  he 
answered : 

"No,  madam,  I  could  hardly  go  so  far  as  to 
say  that — hardly  so  far  as  to  say  that  exactly. 
My  good  friend,  Mr.  Basil  Derby,  has  the  title 
role.  He  originated  the  part  on  Broadway — 
perhaps  that  explains  it.  I  play  the  American 
newspaper  correspondent — a  strong  part,  yet 
with  touches  of  pure  comedy  interspersed  in  it 
here  and  there — a  part  second  only  to  that  of 
the  star." 

"Does  he — this  Mr.  Derby — does  he  get  any 
thing  like  what  you  are  paid?"  ventured  Mr. 
Pilkins.  Surely  the  Ziegler  Company  tempted 

bankruptcy. 

[179] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"I  suspect  so,  sir,  I  suspect  so." 

Mr.  Harcourt's  tone  indicated  subtly  that 
this  world  was  as  yet  by  no  means  free  from 
injustice. 

Before  the  meal  was  anywhere  near  ended — 
in  fact,  before  they  reached  the  orange  sorbet, 
coming  between  the  roast  beef  au  jus  and  the 
choice  of  young  chicken  with  giblet  sauce  or 
cold  sliced  lamb  with  pickled  beets — the  Pil- 
kinses  knew  a  great  deal  about  Mr.  Royal  Har- 
court,  and  Mr.  Royal  Harcourt  knew  the 
Pilkinses  were  good  listeners,  and  not  only 
good  listeners  but  believing  ones  as  well.  So 
a  pleasant  hour  passed  speedily  for  all  three. 
There  was  an  especially  pleasant  moment  just 
at  the  close  of  the  dinner  when  Mr.  Harcourt 
invited  them  to  accompany  him  at  ten  o'clock 
on  the  following  morning  to  the  Ziegler  stu 
dios,  and  as  his  guest  to  witness  the  lensing  of 
certain  episodes  destined  to  figure  in  the  com 
pleted  film  drama  of  The  Prince  of  the  Des 
ert.  Speaking  for  both,  Mrs.  Pilkins  accepted. 

"But,  Gertrude  Maud,"  murmured  Mr.  Pil 
kins  doubtfully  as  the  two  of  them  were  leaving 
the  dining-room  to  hear  the  orchestra  play  in 
the  arched  inner  garden  where  the  poinsettia 
waved  its  fiery  bannerets  aloft,  reminding  one 
somewhat  of  the  wagging  red  oriflamme  of  a 
kindred  member  of  the  same  family — the  Irish 
setter — and  the  inevitable  spoiled  childling  of 
every  tourist  hotel  romped  to  and  fro,  whining 
for  pure  joy,  making  life  a  curse  for  its  parents 
[180] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

and  awakening  in  the  hearts  of  others  reconciling 
thoughts  touching  upon  the  late  King  Herod, 
the  bald-headed  prophet  who  called  the  bears 
down  out  of  the  hills,  and  the  style  of  human 
sacrifices  held  to  be  most  agreeable  to  the  tastes 
of  the  heathenish  god  Moloch.  "But,  Gertrude 
Maud,"  he  repeated  demurringly  as  he  trailed 
a  pace  behind  her,  seeing  she  had  not  heard  or 
seemed  not  to  have  heard.  In  her  course  Mrs. 
Pilkins  halted  so  suddenly  that  a  double- 
stranded  necklet  of  small  wooden  darning  eggs 
of  graduated  sizes  clinked  together  smartly. 

"Chester,"  she  stated  sharply,  "don't  keep 
bleating  out  'Gertrude  Maud'  like  that.  It 
annoys  me.  If  you  have  anything  to  say, 
quit  mumbling  and  say  it." 

"But,  Ger — but,  my  dear,"  he  corrected  him 
self  plaintively,  "we  were  going  to  visit  the 
orange  groves  to-morrow  morning.  I  have  al 
ready  spoken  to  the  automobile  man " 

"Chester,"  said  Mrs.  Pilkins,  "the  orange 
groves  can  wait.  I  understand  they  have  been 
here  for  some  time.  They  will  probably  last 
for  some  time  longer.  To-morrow  morning  at 
ten  o'clock  you  and  I  are  going  with  that  nice 
Mr.  Harcourt.  It  will  be  an  interesting  expe 
rience  and  a  broadening  one.  We  are  here  to 
be  broadened.  We  will  see  something  very 
worth  while,  I  am  convinced  of  it." 

Indeed,  they  began  to  witness  events  of  an 
acutely  unusual  nature  before  ten  o'clock.  As 
they  came  out  from  breakfast  there  darted 
[181] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


down  the  lobby  stairs  at  the  right  a  young 
maiden  and  a  youth,  both  most  strikingly 
garbed.  The  young  lady  wore  a  frock  of  broad 
white-and-black  stripes  clingingly  applied  to 
her  figure  in  up-and-down  lines.  She  had  a 
rounded  cheek,  a  floating  pigtail,  and  very 
large  buckles  set  upon  the  latchets  of  her 
twinkling  bootees.  The  youth  was  habited 
as  a  college  boy.  At  least  he  wore  a  Norfolk 
jacket,  a  flowing  tie  of  the  Windsor,  England, 
and  East  Aurora,  New  York,  variety,  and  trous 
ers  which  were  much  too  short  for  him  if  they 
were  meant  to  be  long  trousers  and  much  too 
long  for  him  if  they  were  meant  to  be  short 
trousers.  Hand  in  hand,  with  gladsome  out 
cry,  this  pair  sped  through  the  open  doors  and 
vaulted  down  the  porch  steps  without,  as 
nimbly  as  the  chamois  of  the  Alpine  steeps, 
toward  a  large  touring  car,  wherein  sat  a 
waiting  chauffeur,  most  correctly  liveried  and 
goggled. 

Close  behind  them,  in  ardent  pursuit,  an 
elderly,  rather  obese  gentleman,  in  white  waist 
coat,  white  side  whiskers  and  white  spats — 
patently  a  distressed  parent — tore  into  sight, 
waving  his  arms  and  calling  upon  the  fleeing 
pair  to  halt.  Yet  halted  they  not.  They 
whisked  into  the  rear  seat  of  the  automobile 
just  as  the  elderly  gentleman  tripped  on  a 
crack  in  the  planking  of  the  veranda  and  was 
precipitated  headlong  into  the  arms  of  a  fat 
bellboy  who  at  this  exact  moment  emerged 
[182] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

from  behind  a  pillar.  It  was  a  very  fat  bellboy 
— one  that  could  not  have  weighed  an  ounce 
less  than  two  hundred  pounds,  nor  been  an  hour 
less  than  forty  years  old — and  he  was  gro 
tesquely  comical  in  a  suit  of  brass  buttons  and 
green  cloth  incredibly  tight  for  him.  Locked  in 
each  other's  arms  the  parent  and  bellboy  rolled 
down  the  steps — bumpety-bump ! — and  as  pro 
gressing  thus  in  close  communion  they  reached 
the  surface  of  the  driveway,  a  small-town  po 
liceman,  wearing  long  chin  whiskers  and  an 
enormous  tin  star,  ran  forward  from  nowhere 
in  particular,  stumbled  over  their  entangled 
forms  and  fell  upon  them  with  great  violence. 
Then  while  the  three  of  them  squirmed  and 
wriggled  there  in  a  heap,  the  automobile 
whirled  away  with  the  elopers — it  was,  of  course, 
by  now  quite  plain  that  they  must  be  elopers — 
casting  mocking,  mirthsome  glances  backward 
over  their  diminishing  shoulders. 

"Slap  stick!  Rough-house!  Cheap  stuff! 
But  it  goes — somehow  it  goes.  The  public 
stands  for  it.  It  passes  one's  comprehension." 
It  was  Mr.  Royal  Harcourt  who,  standing  just 
behind  the  Pilkinses,  commented  in  tones  of 
a  severe  disparagement.  They  became  cognisant 
also  of  a  man  who  had  been  stationed  in  the 
grass  plot  facing  the  hotel,  grinding  away  at  a 
crank  device  attached  to  a  large  camera.  He 
had  now  ceased  from  grinding.  Except  for  the 
camera  man,  the  disapproving  Mr.  Harcourt 
and  themselves,  no  one  else  within  sight  ap- 
[183] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


peared  to  take  more  than  a  perfunctory  interest 
in  what  had  just  occurred. 

"Come  with  me,"  bade  Mr.  Harcourt  when 
the  outraged  parent,  the  fat  bellboy  and  the 
small-town  policeman  had  picked  themselves 
up,  brushed  themselves  off  and  taken  themselves 
away.  "You  have  seen  one  side  of  this  great 
industry.  I  propose  now  to  introduce  you  to 
another  side  of  it — the  artistic  side." 

He  waved  his  arm  in  a  general  direction,  and 
instantly  a  small  jitneybile  detached  itself  from 
a  flock  of  jitneybiles  stationed  alongside  the 
nearer  curbing  and  came  curving  up  to  receive 
them.  This  city,  I  may  add  in  passing,  was 
the  home  of  the  original  mother  jitney,  and 
there,  in  her  native  habitat,  she  spawned  ex 
tensively  before  she  moved  eastward,  breeding 
busily  as  she  went. 

To  the  enlarged  eyes  of  the  Pilkinses  strange 
phases  of  life  were  recurringly  revealed  as  the 
vehicle  which  their  guide  had  chartered  pro 
gressed  along  the  wide  suburban  street,  beneath 
the  shelter  of  the  pepper  trees  and  the  palms. 
Yet  the  residential  classes  living  thereabout  ap 
peared  to  view  the  things  which  transpired  with 
a  languid,  not  to  say  a  bored,  manner;  and  as 
for  Mr.  Harcourt,  he,  sitting  in  front  alongside 
the  driver,  seemed  scarcely  to  notice  them  at 
all. 

For  example:  Two  automobiles,  one  loaded 
with  French  Zouaves  and  the  other  with  Prus- 
sian  infantrymen,  all  heavily  armed  and  com- 

[184] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

pletely  accoutred,  whizzed  by  them,  going  in 
the  opposite  direction.  A  most  winsome, 
heavily  bejewelled  gypsy  lass  flirted  openly 
with  an  affectionate  butler  beneath  the  windows 
of  a  bungalow,  while  a  waspish  housemaid,  evi 
dently  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  by  emotions  of 
jealousy,  balefully  spied  upon  them  from  the 
shelter  of  an  adjacent  shrubbery  clump.  Out 
of  a  small  fruit  store  emerged  a  benevolent, 
white-haired  Church  of  England  clergyman,  of 
the  last  century  but  one,  in  cassock,  flat  hat 
and  knee  breeches.  With  him  walked  a  most 
villainous-appearing  pirate,  a  wretch  whose 
whiskered  face  was  gashed  with  cutlass  scars 
and  whose  wicked  legs  were  leathered  hip-deep 
in  jack  boots.  These  two  were  eating  tangerines 
from  the  same  paper  bag  as  they  issued  forth 
together. 

The  car  bearing  our  friends  passed  a  mansion, 
the  handsomest  upon  the  street.  Out  from  its 
high-columned  portals  into  the  hot  sunshine 
staggered  a  young  man  whose  lips  were  very 
red  and  whose  moustache  was  very  black,  with 
great  hollows  beneath  his  eyes  and  white  patches 
at  his  temples — a  young  man  dressed  in  correct 
evening  attire,  who,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
struck  his  open  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a 
gesture  indicative  of  intense  despair — you  some 
how  opined  he  had  lost  all  at  the  gaming  table 
— then  reeled  from  sight  down  a  winding  drive 
way.  One  glimpsed  that  his  glistening  linen 
shirt  bosom  was  of  a  pronounced  saffron  cast, 
[185] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


with  collar  and  tie  and  cuffs  all  of  the  same 
bilious  tone  to  match. 

"Noticed  the  yellow,  didn't  you?"  asked  Mr. 
Harcourt.  "That  means  he's  been  doing  indoor 
stuff.  Under  the  lights  yellow  comes  out  white." 

At  the  end  of  a  long  mile  the  jitney  halted  at 
a  gateway  set  in  a  high  wooden  wall  beyond 
which  might  be  seen  the  peaks  of  a  glass-topped 
roof.  About  this  gateway  clustered  a  large 
assemblage  of  citizens  of  all  ages  and  conditions, 
but  with  the  young  of  both  sexes  predominating. 
As  the  young  women  uniformly  wore  middy 
blouses  and  the  young  men  sport  shirts,  opened 
at  the  neck,  there  were  bared  throats  and  wide 
sailor  collars  wherever  one  looked. 

"Extra  people,"  elucidated  their  host. 
"They  get  three  a  day — when  they  work. 
We'll  probably  use  a  lot  of  them  to-day." 

Within  the  inclosure  a  new  world  unfolded 
itself  for  the  travellers  from  the  Atlantic  sea 
board — in  fact,  sections  of  several  new  worlds. 
At  the  heels  of  Mr.  Harcourt  they  threaded 
their  way  along  a  great  wooden  stage  that  was 
open,  front  and  top,  to  the  blue  skies,  and  as 
they  followed  after  him  they  looked  sideways 
into  the  interior  of  a  wrecked  and  deserted  Bel 
gian  farmhouse;  and  next  door  to  that  into  a 
courtroom  now  empty  of  everything  except  its 
furnishings;  and  next  door  to  that  into  a  gloomy 
dungeon  with  barred  windows  and  painted 
canvas  walls.  They  took  a  turn  across  a  dusty 
stretch  of  earth  beyond  the  far  end  of  the  seg- 
^  [186] 


THE      EYES      OF      THE      WORLD 

mented  stage,  and,  lo,  they  stood  in  the  gibber 
ing  midriff  of  an  Oriental  city.  Behind  all  was 
lath,  furring  and  plaster,  chicken  wire,  two-by- 
fours  and  shingle  nails ;  but  in  front  'twas  a  cross- 
section  of  teeming  bazaar  life.  How  far  away 
seemed  373  Japonica  Avenue,  Brooklyn,  then! 

An  energetic  man  in  laced  boots  and  a  flannel 
shirt — Mr.  Harcourt  called  him  the  director — 
peered  angrily  into  the  perspective  of  the  scene 
and,  waving  a  pasteboard  megaphone  in  com 
mand,  ordained  that  a  distant  mountain  should 
come  ten  feet  nearer  to  him.  Alongside  of  this 
young  man  Mohammed  was  an  amateur.  For 
the  mountain  did  obey,  advancing  ten  feet,  no 
more  and  no  less.  Half  a  score  of  young  men 
in  cowboy  garb  enshrouded  themselves  in 
flowing  white  draperies,  took  long,  tasselled 
spears  in  their  hands,  and  swung  themselves 
upon  the  backs  of  horses — and,  behold,  a  tribe 
of  Bedouins  trotted  through  the  crowded,  wind 
ing  way,  scattering  mendicants,  priests,  camel 
drivers  and  peddlers  from  before  their  path. 

Upon  the  edge  of  all  this  Chester  K.  Pilkins 
hovered  as  one  entranced.  He  had  lost  Mrs. 
Pilkins;  he  was  separated  from  Mr.  Har 
court. 

He  became  aware  of  three  damsels  of  tender 
years  who  sat  in  a  row  upon  a  pile  of  rough 
lumber  near  at  hand.  They  wore  flowing  robes 
of  many  colours;  they  were  barefooted,  their 
small  toes  showing  pleasantly  pink  and  white 
below  the  hems  of  their  robes,  and  their  arms 
[187] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


were  drawn  primly  behind  them.  He  watched 
them.  Although  manifestly  having  no  part  in 
the  scene  then  being  rehearsed  for  filming,  they 
continued  to  hold  their  arms  in  this  restrained 
and  presumably  uncomfortable  attitude,  as 
though  they  might  be  practising  some  new  form 
of  a  deep-breathing  exercise. 

As  he  watched,  one  of  the  three,  catching  his 
eye,  arose  and  came  padding  her  little  bare  feet 
through  the  dust  to  where  he  stood. 

"Do  me  a  favour?"  she  inquired  archly. 

"Why — why,  yes,  certainly,  if  possible," 
answered  Mr.  Pilkins. 

"Sure,  it's  possible.  See  this?"  She  shook 
her  head,  and  a  wayward  ringlet  which  dangled 
down  against  one  cheek  was  agitated  to  and 
fro  across  her  pert  face.  "Well,  it's  tickling 
my  nose  something  fierce.  Tuck  it  back  up 
out  of  sight,  will  you?" 

"I'm — I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  stam 
mered  Mr.  Pilkins,  jostled  internally. 

She  turned  slowly  round,  and  he  saw  then 
that  her  wrists  were  crossed  behind  her  back 
and  firmly  bound  together  with  a  length  of 
new  cotton  rope. 

"I'm  one  of  the  captive  Armenians,"  she  ex 
plained,  facing  him  again.  "More'n  a  hour 
ago  Wagstaff — he's  the  assistant  director — he 
tied  us  up.  We  gotta  stay  all  tied  up,  just  so, 
till  our  scene  goes  on.  He's  such  a  bug  on  all 
them  little  details — Wagstaff  is!  Go  on — be  a 
good  fella  and  get  this  hair  up  out  of  my  face, 
[188] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

won't  you?  I'll  be  sneezing  my  head  off  in  an 
other  minute.  But  say — mind  the  make-up." 

A  brightish  pink  in  colour,  Mr.  Pilkins  ex 
tended  a  helping  hand,  tingling  inside  of  him 
self. 

"Chester!" 

It  was  his  master's  voice,  -speaking  with  most 
decided  masterfulness.  As  though  the  errant 
curl  had  been  red-hot  Mr.  Pilkins  jerked  his 
outstretched  fingers  back.  The  Armenian  maid 
en  retired  precipitately,  her  shoulders  twitch 
ing. 

"Chester,  come  here!" 

Chester  came,  endeavouring,  unsuccessfully, 
to  avoid  all  outward  semblance  of  guilt. 

"Chester,  might  I  ask  what  you  were  doing 
with  that — that  young  person?"  Mrs.  Pilkins' 
manner  was  ominous. 

"I  was  helping  her — a  little — with  her  hair." 

"With  her — why,  what — do  you " 

"She  is  tied.  Her  hands,  you  know.  .  .  . 
She " 

"Tied,  is  she?"  Mrs.  Pilkins  bestowed  a 
chilled  stare  upon  the  retreating  figure  of  the 
captive.  "Well,  she  deserves  to  be.  They 
should  keep  her  tied.  Chester,  I  want  you  to 
stay  close  to  me  and  not  go  wandering  off 
again." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  will — I  mean,  I  won't." 

"Besides,  you  may  be  needed  any  minute 
now.  Mr.  Harcourt" — she  indicated  that  gen- 
tleman,  who  had  approached — "has  been  kind 
[189] 


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enough  to  invite  us  to  take  part  in  this  beautiful 
production." 

"But,  my  dear— but— 

"Chester,  I  wish  for  my  sake  you  would  re 
frain  from  keeping  on  saying  'but.'  And  please 
quit  interrupting." 

"You  see — it's  like  this,"  explained  Mr.  Har- 
court:  "It's  the  scene  at  the  dock  when  the 
heroine  gets  home.  You  two  are  to  be  two  of 
the  passengers — the  director  says  he'll  be  very 
glad  to  have  you  take  part.  I  just  spoke  to 
him.  There  will  be  many  others  in  the  scene — 
extras,  you  know.  Think  you'd  like  it?  It  will 
be  an  experience." 

"As  you  say,  Mr.  Harcourt,  it  will  be  an  ex 
perience,"  said  Mrs.  Pilkins.  "I  accept  with 
pleasure.  So  does  my  husband." 

Promptly  ensued  then  action,  and  plenty  of 
it.  With  many  others,  recruited  from  the  ranks 
of  the  populace,  the  Chester  Pilkinses  were 
herded  into  a  corner  of  the  open-faced  stage 
at  the  back  side  of  the  bazaar — a  corner  which 
the  two  presiding  genii  of  that  domain,  known 
technically  and  respectively  as  the  boss  car 
penter  and  the  head  property  man,  had,  by 
virtue  of  their  magic  and  in  accordance  with 
an  order  from  their  overlord,  the  director,  trans 
formed,  even  as  one  waited,  from  something 
else  into  the  pierhead  of  a  New  York  dock. 
With  these  same  others  our  two  friends  mounted 
a  steep  flight  of  steps  behind  the  scenes,  and 
then,  shoving  sheeplike  through  a  painted  gang- 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

way,  in  a  painted  bulkhead  of  a  painted  ship, 
they  flocked  down  across  a  canvas-sided  gang 
plank  to  the  ostensible  deck  of  the  presumable 
pier,  defiling  off  from  left  to  right  out  of  lens 
range,  the  while  they  smiled  and  waved  fond 
greetings  to  supposititious  friends. 

When  they  had  been  made  to  do  this  twice 
and  thrice,  when  divers  stumbling  individuals 
among  them  had  been  corrected  of  a  desire  to 
gaze,  with  the  rapt,  fascinated  stare  of  sleep 
walkers,  straight  into  the  eye  of  the  machine, 
when  the  director  was  satisfied  with  his  re 
hearsal,  he  suddenly  yelled  "Camera!"  and 
started  them  at  it  all  over  again. 

In  this  instant  a  spell  laid  hold  on  Chester 
Pilkins.  As  one  exalted  he  went  through  the 
picture,  doing  his  share  and  more  than  his  share 
to  make  it  what  a  picture  should  be.  For  being 
suddenly  possessed  with  the  instinct  to  act — 
an  instinct  which  belongs  to  all  of  us,  but  which 
some  of  us  after  we  have  grown  up  manage  to 
repress — Chester  acted.  In  his  movements 
there  was  the  unstudied  carelessness  which  is 
best  done  when  it  is  studied;  in  his  fashion  of 
carrying  his  furled  umbrella  and  his  strapped 
steamer  rug — the  Zeigler  Company  had  fur 
nished  the  steamer  rug  but  the  umbrella  was 
his  own — there  was  natural  grace;  in  his  quick 
start  of  recognition  on  beholding  some  dear 
one  in  the  imaginary  throng  waiting  down  on 
the  pier  out  of  sight  there  was  that  art  which 
is  the  highest  of  all  arts. 

[191] 


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With  your  permission  we  shall  skip  the 
orange  groves,  languishing  through  that  day 
for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester  K.  Pilkins  to  come 
and  see  them.  We  shall  skip  the  San  Francisco 
Exposition.  We  shall  skip  the  Yosemite  Val 
ley,  in  which  to  Chester  there  seemed  to  be 
something  lacking,  and  the  Big  Trees,  which 
after  all  were  much  like  other  trees,  excepting 
these  were  larger.  These  things  the  travellers 
saw  within  the  scope  of  three  weeks,  and  the 
end  of  those  three  weeks  and  the  half  of  a 
fourth  week  brings  them  and  us  back  to  373 
Japonica  Avenue.  There  daily  Chester  watched 
the  amusement  columns  of  the  Eagle. 

On  a  Monday  evening  at  seven-fifteen  he 
arrived  home  from  the  office,  holding  in  his 
hand  a  folded  copy  of  that  dependable  sheet. 

"Chester,"  austerely  said  Mrs.  Pilkins  as  he 
let  himself  in  at  the  door,  "you  are  late,  and 
you  have  kept  everything  waiting.  Hurry 
through  your  dinner.  We  are  going  over  to  the 
Lewinsohns  for  four-handed  rummy  and  then 
a  rarebit." 

"Not  to-night,  Gertrude  Maud,"  said  Ches 
ter. 

"And  why  not  to-night?"  demanded  the 
lady  with  a  rising  inflection. 

"Because,"  said  Chester,  "to-night  we  are 
going  to  the  Bijou  Palace  Theatre.  The  Prince 
of  the  Desert  goes  on  to-night  for  the  first 
run." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Pilkins  understandingly. 
[192] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

"I'll  telephone  Mrs.  Lewinsohn  we  can't  come 
— make  some  excuse  or  other.  Yes,  we'll  go 
to  the  Bijou  Palace."  She  said  this  as  though 
the  idea  had  been  hers  all  along. 

Seated  in  the  darkened  auditorium  they 
watched  the  play  unfold  upon  the  screen. 
They  watched  while  the  hero,  a  noble  son  of 
the  Arabic  sands,  rescued  the  heroine,  who  was 
daughter  to  a  comedy  missionary,  from  the 
clutches  of  the  wicked  governor-general.  They 
saw  the  barefoot  Armenian  maids  dragged  by 
mocking  nomads  across  burning  wastes  to  the 
tented  den  of  a  villainous  sheik,  and  in  the 
pinioned  procession  Chester  recognised  the 
damsel  of  the  truant  curl  and  the  ticklish  nose. 
They  saw  the  intrepid  and  imperturbable  Amer 
ican  correspondent  as,  unafraid,  he  stood  in  the 
midst  of  carnage  and  slaughter,  making  notes 
in  a  large  leather-backed  notebook  such  as  all 
newspaper  correspondents  are  known  to  carry. 
But  on  these  stirring  episodes  Chester  K.  Pilkins 
looked  with  but  half  an  eye  and  less  than 
half  his  mind.  He  was  waiting  for  something 
else. 

Eventually,  at  the  end  of  Reel  Four,  his 
waiting  was  rewarded,  and  he  achieved  the 
ambition  which  all  men  bear  within  themselves, 
but  which  only  a  few,  comparatively  speaking, 
ever  gratify — the  yearning  to  see  ourselves  as 
others  see  us.  While  the  blood  drummed  in 
his  heated  temples  Chester  Pilkins  saw  himself, 
and  he  liked  himself.  I  do  not  overstretch  the 


LOCAL      COLOR 


truth  when  I  say  that  he  liked  himself  first-rate. 
And  when,  in  the  very  midst  of  liking  himself, 
he  reflected  that  elsewhere  over  the  land,  in 
scores,  perhaps  in  hundreds  of  places  such  as 
this  one,  favoured  thousands  were  seeing  him 
too — well,  the  thought  was  well-nigh  over 
powering. 

For  the  succeeding  three  nights  Mr.  Pilkins* 
fireside  knew  him  not.  The  figure  of  speech 
here  employed  is  purely  poetic,  because,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  house  was  heated  by  steam. 
But  upon  each  of  these  three  evenings  he  sat 
in  the  Bijou  Palace,  waiting  for  that  big  mo 
ment  to  come  when  he  before  his  own  eyes 
should  appear.  Each  night  he  discovered  new 
and  pleasing  details  about  himself — the  set  of 
his  head  upon  his  shoulders,  the  swing  of  his 
arm,  the  lift  of  his  leg;  each  night,  the  per 
formance  being  ended,  he  came  forth  regarding 
his  fellow  patrons  compassionately,  for  they 
were  but  the  poor  creatures  who  had  made  up 
the  audience,  while  he  veritably  had  been  not 
only  part  of  the  audience  but  part  of  the  enter 
tainment  as  well;  each  night  he  expected  to  be 
recognised  in  the  flesh  by  some  emerging  per 
son  of  a  keen  discernment  of  vision,  but  was 
disappointed  here;  and  each  night  he  went 
home  at  ten-forty-five  and  told  Gertrude  Maud 
that  business  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge 
had  detained  him.  She  believed  him.  She — 
poor,  blinded  wretch — did  not  see  in  his  eyes 
[194] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

the  flickering  reflection  of  the  spark  of  desire, 
now  fanning  into  a  flame  of  resolution  within 
the  brazier  of  his  ribs. 

Thursday  night  came,  and  The  Prince  of 
the  Desert  film  concluded  its  engagement  at 
the  Bijou  Palace.  Friday  night  came,  but 
Chester  K.  Pilkins  did  not.  He  did  not  come 
home  that  night  nor  the  next  day  nor  the  next 
night.  Without  warning  to  any  one  he  had 
vanished  utterly,  leaving  behind  no  word  of 
whatsoever  nature.  He  was  gone,  entirely  and 
completely  gone,  taking  with  him  only  the 
garments  in  which  he  stood — a  black  cutaway, 
black  four-in-hand  tie,  black  derby  hat,  plain 
button  shoes,  plain,  white,  stiff-bosomed  .shirt. 
I  am  quoting  now  from  the  description  em 
bodied  in  a  printed  general  alarm  sent  out  by 
the  police  department,  which  general  alarm 
went  so  far  as  to  mention  considerable  bridge- 
work  in  the  upper  jaw  and  a  pair  of  fairly 
prominent  ears. 

At  last  Chester  K.  Pilkins,  although  not  pres 
ent  to  read  what  was  printed  of  him,  got  into 
the  papers.  Being  questioned  by  reporters,  his 
late  employers  declared  that  the  missing  man 
was  of  unimpeachable  habits  and  that  his  ac 
counts  were  straight,  and  immediately  then,  in 
a  panic,  set  experts  at  work  on  his  books.  Re 
markable  to  state,  his  accounts  were  straight. 
In  the  bank,  in  his  wife's  name,  he  had  left  a 
comfortable  balance  of  savings.  His  small  in- 
vestments  were  in  order.  They  likewise  were 
[195] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


found  to  be  in  his  wife's  name;  it  seemed  he 
had  sent  a  written  order  for  their  transfer  on 
the  eve  of  his  flight — if  flight  it  was.  The 
house  already  was  hers  by  virtue  of  a  deed  exe 
cuted  years  before.  Discussing  the  nine-day 
sensation,  the  ladies  of  the  neighbourhood  said 
that  even  if  Chester  Pilkins  had  run  away  with 
some  brazen  hussy  or  other,  as  to  them  seemed 
most  probable — because,  you  know,  you  never 
can  tell  about  these  little  quiet  men — at  least 
he  had  left  poor,  dear  Gertrude  well  provided 
for,  and  that,  of  course,  was  something. 

Something  this  may  have  been;  but  the  de 
serted  wife  mourned  and  was  desolate.  She 
wanted  Chester  back;  she  was  used  to  having 
him  round.  He  had  been  a  good  husband,  as 
husbands  go — not  exciting,  perhaps,  but  good. 
Despite  strong  evidences  to  the  contrary,  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  believe  that  delib 
erately  he  had  abandoned  her.  He  was  dead, 
by  some  tragic  and  violent  means,  or  else  he 
had  been  kidnapped.  Twice  with  a  sinking 
heart  she  accompanied  a  detective  sergeant 
from  borough  headquarters  to  the  morgue,  there 
to  gaze  upon  a  poor  relic  of  mortality  which 
had  been  fished  out  of  the  river,  but  which 
bore  no  resemblance  to  her  Chester  nor,  in 
deed,  to  anything  else  that  once  had  been  hu 
man.  After  this  the  police  lost  even  a  per 
functory  interest  in  the  quest.  But  the  lady 
was  not  done.  She  paid  a  retainer  to  a  private 
detective  agency  having  branches  over  the 
[196] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

country,  and  search  was  maintained  in  many 
places,  high  and  low. 

Three  months  went  by;  then  a  fourth.  Ja- 
ponica  Avenue  may  have  forgotten  Chester 
Pilkins,  but  Gertrude  Maud  had  not.  At  the 
tag  end  of  the  fourth  month  came  tidings  from 
the  main  office  of  the  detective  agency  which, 
overnight,  started  Mrs.  Pilkins  to  where — as 
the  passenger  agents  for  the  transcontinental 
lines  so  aptly  phrased  it — California's  Golden 
Strand  is  kissed  by  the  pellucid  waves  of  the 
Sun-Down  Sea.  It  couldn't  be  true,  this  re 
port  which  had  been  brought  to  her  by  a  rep 
resentative  of  the  great  sleuth  for  whom  the 
agency  was  named;  indeed,  it  was  inconceivable 
to  one  who  knew  her  husband  that  such  a  re 
port  could  be  true,  but  she  would  make  certain 
for  herself.  She  would — so  this  suffering,  con 
scientious  woman  told  herself — leave  no  stone 
unturned.  She  would  neglect  to  follow  up  no  clue 
merely  because  of  its  manifest  improbability. 

So  back  she  journeyed  to  that  selfsame  town 
where  the  Ziegler  studios  were  housed.  A  local 
representative  of  the  agency,  being  advised  by 
telegraph  in  advance  of  her  coming,  met  her 
at  the  station.  Expressing  physically  the 
gentle  sympathy  of  an  honorary  pallbearer, 
he  led  her  to  an  automobile,  and  with  her  he 
drove  for  miles  through  streets  which  she  re 
membered  having  traversed  at  least  once  be 
fore,  until  in  the  far  suburban  reaches  of  the 
city,  where  the  blue  foothills  of  the  coast  range 
[197] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


came  down  toward  the  sea,  he  brought  her  to 
a 'centre  of  the  moving-picture  industry;  not 
the  Ziegler  establishment  this  time,  but  to  the 
curious  place  known  as  Filmville  —  ninety 
fenced-in  acres  of  seeming  madness.  It  was 
getting  on  toward  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  automobile  halted  before  its  minareted 
portals.  Leaving  Mrs.  Pilkins  in  the  car  her 
companion  went  to  confer  briefly  with  a  uni 
formed  individual  on  duty  at  the  door.  Re 
turning  to  her  he  spoke  as  follows: 

"The — ahem — the  party  we've  got  under 
suspicion  is  out  on  location  with  a  company. 
But  they're  due  back  here  before  dark.  I  guess 
we'd  better  wait  a  spell." 

He  helped  her  to  alight,  dismissed  the  auto 
mobile,  and  accompanied  her  to  an  ornamental 
seat  facing  an  exceedingly  ornamental  fountain 
which  spouted  in  a  grass  plot  hard  by  the  gates 
to  Filmville.  As  she  sat  and  waited,  strangely 
clad  men  and  women — purporting  to  represent 
in  their  attire  many  periods  of  the  world's 
history  and  many  remote  corners  of  the  world's 
surface — passed  by,  going  in  and  out.  From 
over  the  high  walls  came  to  her  jungle  sounds 
and  jungle  smells,  for  this  large  concern  main 
tained  its  own  zoo  upon  its  own  premises. 
Persistently  a  sacred  cow  of  India,  tethered  in 
a  recess  of  the  fence  where  herbage  sprouted, 
mooed  for  an  absent  mate.  The  voice  of  the 
creature  matched  Mrs.  Pilkins'  thoughts.  In- 
ternally  she  was  mooing  for  her  mate  too. 
[198] 


THE      EYES     OF     THE      WORLD 

Twilight  impended  when  two  automobile 
loads  of  principals,  attired  cowboyishly  and 
cowgirlishly,  came  thumping  out  of  the  north 
along  the  dusty  road.  These  persons  dis 
mounted  and  trooped  inside.  A  little  behind 
them,  heralded  by  a  jingle  of  accoutrement, 
came  a  dozen  or  so  punchers  riding  ponies. 
With  jest  and  quip  bandied  back  and  forth, 
and  to  the  tinkling  of  their  spurs,  these  last 
dropped  off  their  jaded  mounts,  leaving  the 
ponies  to  stand  with  drooping  heads  and  drag 
ging  bridles,  and  went  clumping  on  their  high 
heels  into  a  small  wooden  place,  advertising 
liquid  refreshment,  which  stood  across  the  way. 
The  detective  softly  joggled  Mrs.  Pilkins'  el 
bow. 

"Come  on,  ma'am,"  he  said;  "just  follow 
me.  And  don't  say  anything  until  you're  sure. 
And  don't  scream  or  faint  or  anything  like  that 
— if  you  can  help  it." 

"I  shan't,"  said  Mrs.  Pilkins,  all  a-tremble. 
She  was  resolved  not  to  scream  and  she  was 
not  the  fainting  kind. 

Very  naturally  and  very  properly,  as  a  gently 
nurtured  woman,  Mrs.  Pilkins  had  never  seen 
the  interior  of  a  barroom.  From  just  inside 
the  swinging  doors  where  her  escort  halted  her 
she  looked  about  the  place  with  the  eye  of 
curiosity,  and  even  though  her  mind  swirled 
tumultuously  she  comprehended  it — the  glass 
ware,  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  short  bar, 
the  affable  dispenser  who  stood  behind  it,  and 

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the  row  of  cowboys  who  lined  the  front  of  it 
from  end  to  end,  with  their  backs  and  hunched 
shoulders  all  turned  to  her,  stretching  away  in 
a  diminishing  perspective. 

"Wait  a  minute,  lady,"  advised  the  detec 
tive  in  a  whisper.  "Take  your  time  and  look 
'em  over  careful.  And  be  sure — be  sure  to  be 
sure." 

The  lady  strove  to  obey.  She  looked  and  she 
looked.  At  the  back  of  the  room  three  punchers 
were  clumped  together,  withdrawn  slightly 
from  their  fellows — a  tall  puncher,  a  medium- 
sized  puncher,  and  between  these  two  a  small 
puncher. 

"Here,  ol'-timer,"  bade  the  tall  puncher, 
drumming  with  his  knuckles  upon  the  bar, 
"wait  on  fellers  that  a-got  a  real  thirst.  Three 
long  beers!" 

The  beers  were  drawn  and  placed  at  properly 
spaced  intervals  before  the  three.  Their  three 
right  elbows  rose  at  an  angle;  three  flagons  of 
creamy  brew  vanished. 

A  fourth  cowboy  slid  down  toward  them. 

"Well,"  he  demanded  boisterously,  "how's 
Little  Chestnut  makin'  out?  Still  saddle  sore? 
Still  hatin'  to  think  of  the  place  where  you  got 
to  meet  that  there  old  paint  pony  of  yourn  to- 
mor'  mornin'?" 

It  was  the  tall  cowboy  who  made  answer. 

"Nix  on  that  Chestnut  thing,"  he  said. 
"That's  old  stuff.  You  should  a-seen  the  little 
man  stay  by  that  pinto  of  hisn  when  she  got 
[200] 


THE      EYES     OF      THE      WORLD 

uptious  a  while  ago — jist  stay  by  her  and  pour 
the  leather  into  her.  No,  sir,  that  there  Chest 
nut  stuff  don't  go  any  more  for  this  bunch. 
This  here" — and  his  long  flannel-clad  arm  was 
endearingly  enwrapped  about  the  shoulders  of 
his  small  companion — "this  here  boy  from  now 
on  is  Old  Chesty." 

Even  though  viewed  from  behind,  it  might 
be  seen  that  the  person  thus  rechristened  was 
protruding  a  proud  chest.  With  a  little  swag 
ger  he  breasted  the  bar. 

"I'm  buying,"  he  stated  loudly.  "Every 
body's  in  on  this  one." 

"Wheel"  yelled  the  big  cowboy.  "Chesty's 
buy  in' — this  one's  on  Old  Chesty." 

But  another  voice  rose  above  his  voice,  over 
topping  it — the  cry  of  an  agonised  woman: 

"Oh,  Chester!" 

As  though  he  had  been  bee-stung  the  little 
man  pivoted  on  his  heels.  His  chaps  hung 
floppingly  about  his  short  legs;  his  blue  shirt 
was  open  halfway  down  his  sunburnt  chest; 
his  pistol  holster  flapped  against  his  flank;  his 
wide  white  hat  was  upon  the  back  of  his  head; 
his  neck  was  tanned  brown;  his  face  was  red 
and  sweaty;  his  large  outstanding  ears  were 
burnt  a  bright,  translucent  crimson;  his  hands 
were  dirty — but  it  was  Chester.  For  one  mo 
ment,  contemplating  the  accusing,  brimming 
eyes  of  the  lady,  he  flinched  and  shrank  as  one 
reared  amid  the  refining  influences  of  Japonica 
Avenue  under  such  circumstances  as  these 
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might  well  have  flinched,  might  well  have 
shrunk.  Then  he  stiffened  and  in  all  visible 
regards  was  again  Old  Chesty,  the  roughrider. 

"Hello,  Gertrude,"  he  said,  just  like  that. 

"Oh,  Chester!"  she  wailed  the  words  in 
louder  key  even  than  before. 

Like  the  gentleman  that  he  was,  the  bar 
keeper  turned  squarely  round  and  began  pol 
ishing  the  valve  of  a  beer  pump  with  the  palm 
of  his  moist  hand.  With  a  glance  which  swiftly 
travelled  from  one  to  another  the  tall  cowboy 
gathered  up  his  fellows  and  speedily  they  with 
drew  through  the  swinging  doors,  passing  the 
lady  with  faces  averted,  profoundly  actuated 
all  by  considerations  inspired  of  their  delicate 
outdoor  sensibilities.  Except  for  the  detective 
person,  husband  and  wife,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  stood  alone,  face  to  face. 

"Oh,  Chester,"  she  repeated  for  the  third 
time,  and  now  forgivingly  her  arms  were  out 
stretched.  "Oh,  Chester,  how  could  you  do 
it?" 

"Do  what,  Gertrude?" 

"Run  away  and  1-1-leave  me.  What  did  you 
do  it  for?" 

"Three  dollars  a  day,"  he  answered  simply. 
There  was  no  flippancy  in  the  reply,  but 
merely  directness. 

"Oh,  Chester,  to  give  up  your  home — your 
position — me — for  that!  Oh,  what  madness 
possessed  you!  Chester,  come  back  home." 

"Back  home  to  Brooklyn?  Not  on  your 
[202] 


THE     EYES     OF     THE     WORLD 

life."  His  tone  was  firmness  itself.  He  spoke 
commandingly,  as  one  who  not  only  is  master 
of  himself  but  of  a  present  situation.  "Ger 
trude,  you'd  better  stay  here,  too,  now  that 
you've  come.  I  guess  maybe  I  could  get  'em 
to  work  you  in  on  the  regular  list  of  extras. 
You'd  probably  film  well."  He  eyed  her  ap- 
praisingly. 

"But,  oh,  Chester,  to  go — as  you  went — 
with  never  a  word — never  a  line  to  me!" 

"Gertrude,  you  wouldn't  have  understood. 
Don't  you  see,  honey,  it's  like  this."  He  took 
her  in  his  arms,  even  as  she  had  meant  to  take 
him  into  hers,  and,  with  small,  comforting  pats 
upon  her  heaving  back,  sought  to  soothe  her. 
"It's  like  this — I'm  before  the  public  now. 
Why,  Gerty,  I'm  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 


[  203  ] 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE    GREAT   AUK 


AS  regards  the  body  of  the  house  it  lay 
mostly  in  shadows — the  man-made, 
daytime  shadows  which  somehow  al 
ways  seem  denser  and  blacker  than 
those  that  come  in  the  night.  The  little  jogs 
in  the  wall  behind  the  boxes  were  just  the  same 
as  coalholes.  The  pitched  front  of  the  balcony 
suggested  a  deformed  upper  jaw,  biting  down 
on  darkness.  Its  stucco  facings,  shining  dimly, 
like  a  row  of  teeth,  added  to  the  illusion.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  pit,  or  the  family  circle,  or 
whatever  it  was  they  called  it  at  the  Cosmos 
Theatre,  where  the  light  was  somewhat  better, 
the  backs  of  the  seats  showed  bumpily  beneath 
the  white  cloths  that  covered  them,  like  lines 
of  graves  in  a  pauper  burying  ground  after  a 
snowstorm. 

A  third  of  the  way  back,  in  this  potter's  field 

of  dead-and-gone  laughter,  a  man  was  hunched 

in  a  despondent  posture.     His  attitude  would 

make  you  think  of  a  lone  ghost  that  had  an- 

[  204  ] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


swered  the  resurrection  trump  too  soon  and 
now  was  overcome  with  embarrassment  at  hav 
ing  been  deceived  by  a  false  alarm.  The  brim 
of  his  hat  rested  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 
Belonging,  as  he  did,  to  a  race  that  is  esteemed 
to  be  essentially  commercial,  he  had  the  artistic 
face  and  the  imaginative  eyes  which,  as  often 
as  not,  are  found  in  those  of  his  breed. 

His  name  was  Sam  Verba.  He  was  general 
director  for  Cohalan  &  Hymen,  producing  man 
agers.  He  was  watching  a  rehearsal  of  a  new 
play,  though  he  did  not  appear  to  be.  Seem 
ingly,  if  he  was  interested  in  anything  at  all 
it  was  in  the  movements  of  two  elderly  chore- 
women,  who  dawdled  about  the  place  delib- 
eratively,  with  dust  rags  and  brooms.  Occa 
sionally,  as  one  of  the  women  raised  her  voice 
shrilly  to  address  her  distant  sister,  he  went 
"Sh-h!  Sh-h!" — like  a  defective  steam  pipe. 
Following  this  the  offender  would  lower  her 
voice  for  a  space  measurable  by  seconds. 

Border  lights,  burning  within  the  proscenium 
arch,  made  the  stage  brightly  visible,  revealing 
it  as  a  thing  homely  and  nude.  Stage  proper 
ties  were  piled  indiscriminately  at  either  side. 
Against  the  bare  brick  wall  at  the  back,  seg 
ments  of  scenes  were  stacked  any-which-way, 
so  that  a  strip  of  a  drawing  room  set  was  super 
imposed  on  a  strip  of  a  kitchen  and  that  in 
turn  overlapped  part  of  a  wainscoted  library, 
the  result  being  as  though  an  earthquake  had 
come  along  and  shaken  one  room  of  somebody's 
[205] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


house  into  another  room  and  that  into  another, 
and  then  had  left  them  so.  In  sight  were  four 
women  and  nine  men,  who  perched  on  chairs  or 
tables  or  roosted,  crow-fashion,  upon  the  iron 
steps  of  a  narrow  staircase  which  ascended  to 
the  top  tier  of  dressing  rooms,  extending  along 
a  narrow  balcony  above.  The  hour  was  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Therefore  these  per 
sons  wore  the  injured  look  which  people  of  their 
nocturnal  profession  customarily  wear  upon 
being  summoned  out  of  their  beds  before  mid 
day. 

At  a  little  table,  teetering  on  rickety  legs  al 
most  in  the  trough  of  the  footlights,  sat  a  man 
hostilely  considering  a  typewritten  script,  which 
was  so  interlined,  so  marked  and  disfigured  with 
crosses,  stars,  and  erasures  that  only  one  person 
— the  author  of  these  ciphers — might  read  his 
own  code  and  sometimes  even  he  couldn't.  The 
man  at  the  table  was  the  director,  especially 
engaged  to  put  on  this  particular  piece,  which 
was  a  comedy  drama.  He  raised  his  head. 

"All  right,  children,"  he  said,  "take  the  sec 
ond  act — from  the  beginning.  Miss  Cherry, 
Mrs.  Morehead — come  along.  Stand  by,  every 
body  else,  and,  please,  in  Heaven's  name,  re 
member  your  cues — for  once." 

A  young  woman  and  a  middle-aged  woman 
detached  themselves  from  one  of  the  waiting 
groups  and  came  downstage.  The  young 
woman  moved  eagerly  to  obey;  she  was  an  ex- 
ceedingly  pretty  young  woman.  The  other 
[206] 


THE     GREAT     AUK 

woman,  having  passed  her  youth,  strove  now 
to  re-create  it  in  her  costume.  She  wore  a 
floppy  hat  and  a  rather  skimpy  frock,  which 
buttoned  down  her  back,  school-girl  fashion, 
and  ended  several  inches  above  her  ankles. 
Under  the  light  her  dyed  hair  shone  with  the 
brilliancy  of  a  new  copper  saucepan.  There 
were  fine,  puckery  lines  at  her  eyes.  Her  skin, 
though,  had  the  smooth  texture  which  comes, 
some  say,  from  the  grease  paint,  and  others  say 
from  plenty  of  sleep. 

She  held  in  one  hand  a  flimsy,  blue-backed 
sheaf;  it  was  her  part  in  this  play.  Having 
that  wisdom  in  her  calling  which  comes  of  long 
experience,  she  would  read  from  it  until  auto 
matically  she  had  acquired  it  without  prolonged 
mental  effort;  would  let  her  trained  and  docile 
memory  sop  up  the  speeches  by  processes  of 
absorption.  Miss  Cherry  carried  no  manu 
script;  she  didn't  need  it.  She  had  been  sitting 
up  nights,  studying  her  lines.  For  she,  the  poor 
thing,  was  newly  escaped  from  a  dramatic 
school.  Mrs.  Morehead  wanted  to  make  a 
living.  Miss  Cherry  wanted  to  make  a  hit. 

These  two  began  the  opening  scene  of  the 
act  and,  between  them,  carried  it  forward. 
Miss  Cherry  as  the  daughter,  was  playing  it 
in  rehearsal,  exactly  as  she  expected  to  play  it 
before  an  audience,  putting  in  gestures,  inflec 
tions,  short  catches  of  the  breath,  emotional 
gasps — all  the  illusions,  all  the  business  of  the 
part.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Morehead  ap- 
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LOCAL     COLOR 


peared  to  have  but  one  ambition  in  her  present 
employment  and  that  was  to  get  it  over  with 
as  speedily  as  possible.  After  this  contrasted 
fashion,  then,  they  progressed  to  a  certain  dra 
matic  juncture: 

"But,  mother,"  said  Miss  Cherry,  her  arms 
extended  in  a  carefully-thought-out  attitude  of 
girlish  bewilderment,  "what  am  I  to  do?" 

Mrs.  Morehead  glanced  down,  refreshing  her 
memory  by  a  glance  into  the  blue  booklet. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "leave  it  to  destiny." 

She  said  this  in  the  tone  of  a  person  of  rather 
indifferent  appetite,  ordering  toast  and  tea  for 
breakfast. 

A  pause  ensued  here. 

"My  child,"  repeated  Mrs.  Morehead,  glanc 
ing  over  her  shoulder  impatiently,  but  speaking 
still  in  the  same  voice,  "leave  it  to  destiny." 

"Well,  well—  '  snapped  the  man  at  the 
little  table,  "that's  the  cue,  'leave  it  to  destiny/ 
Come  on,  McVey?  Come  a-w-n,  McVey? 
Where's  McVey  ?  "  He  raised  his  voice  fretfully. 

A  nervous,  thin  man  hurried  down  the  stage. 

"Oh,  there  you  are.  Go  ahead,  McVey. 
You're  keeping  everybody  waiting.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  you'd  have  to  read  the  grandfather's 
part  to-day?" 

"No,  sir,  you  didn't,"  said  McVey,  aggrieved. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  meant  to,"  said  his  su 
perior. 

"But  I'm  reading  Miss  Gifford's  part  this 
morning,"  said  McVey,  who  was  the  assistant 
[208] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 

stage  manager.  "She  had  to  go  to  see  about 
her  costumes." 

"You'll  have  to  read  'em  both,  then,"  or 
dered  the  special  director.  "Anyhow,  the  parts 
don't  conflict — they're  not  on  the  stage  to 
gether  during  this  act.  Do  the  best  you  can. 
Now  let's  go  back  and  take  those  last  two 
sides  over  again." 

Vibrantly  and  with  the  proper  gesture  in  the 
proper  place,  Miss  Cherry  repeated  her  speech. 
Wearily  and  without  gestures,  Mrs.  Morehead 
repeated  hers.  The  flustered  McVey,  holding 
the  absentee  Miss  Gifford's  part  in  one  hand 
and  the  mythical  grandfather's  in  the  other, 
circled  upstage  and,  coming  hurriedly  down, 
stepped  in  between  them. 

"No,  no,  no,"  barked  the  director,  "don't 
come  on  that  way — you'll  throw  both  these 
ladies  out.  Come  on  at  the  upper  side  of  that 
blue  chair,  Mac;  that's  the  door.  This  is  sup 
posed  to  be  a  house.  You  can't  walk  right 
through  the  side  of  a  house  without  upsetting 
things.  You  realize  that,  don't  you?  Once 
more — back  again  to  'leave  it  to  destiny.' ' 

The  rehearsal  went  on  by  the  customary 
process  of  advancing  a  foot  and  a  half,  then  re 
treating  a  foot,  then  re-advancing  two  feet. 
The  novices  in  the  cast  were  prodigal  of  their 
energy,  but  the  veterans  saved  themselves 
against  what  they  knew  was  coming  later,  when 
they  would  need  all  they  had  of  strength  and 

more,  besides. 

[209] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


A  young  man  let  himself  in  through  the  box- 
office  door  and  stood  in  that  drafty,  inky-black 
space  the  theatrical  folks  call  the  front  of  the 
house  and  the  public  call  the  back  of  the  house. 
Coming  out  of  the  sunlight  into  this  cave  of  the 
winds,  he  was  blinded  at  first.  He  blinked 
until  he  peered  out  the  shape  of  Verba,  slumped 
down  midway  of  a  sheeted  stretch  of  orchestra 
chairs,  and  he  felt  his  way  down  the  centre 
aisle  and  slipped  into  a  place  alongside  the 
silent,  broody  figure.  The  newcomer  was  the 
author  of  the  play,  named  Offutt;  his  age  was 
less  than  thirty;  and  his  manner  was  cheerful, 
as :  befitting  an  author  who  is  less  than  thirty 
and  has  placed  a  play  with  an  established  firm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "how's  everything  going?" 

"Rotten,  thank  you!"  said  Verba,  continuing 
to  stare  straight  ahead.  "We're  still  shy  one 
grandfather,  if  that  should  be  of  any  interest 
to  you." 

"But  you  had  Grainger  engaged — I  thought 
that  was  all  settled  last  night,"  said  the  play 
wright. 

"That  tired  business  man?  Huh!"  said 
Verba  expressively.  "By  the  time  he'd  got 
through  fussing  over  the  style  of  contract  he 
wanted,  in  case  he  liked  the  part  and  we  liked 
him  in  it,  and  then  quarrelling  about  the  salary 
he  was  to  get,  and  then  arguing  out  how  high 
up  the  list  his  name  was  to  appear  in  the  billing, 
your  friend  Grainger  was  completely  exhausted. 

"And  then,  on  top  of  that,  he  discovered  we 

[210] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 

were  going  to  Chicago  after  the  opening  in 
Rochester,  and  he  balked.  Said  his  following 
was  here  in  New  York.  Said  he'd  supposed  we 
were  coming  right  in  here  after  the  opening  in 
stead  of  fussing  round  on  the  road.  Said  he 
couldn't  think  of  being  kept  out  of  New  York 
at  the  beginning  of  the  season  unless  he  got  at 
least  seventy-five  more  a  week.  Said  he'd  go 
back  to  vaudeville  first.  Said  he  had  a  swell 
offer  from  the  two-a-day  shops  anyhow. 

"Then  I  said  a  few  things  to  Grainger  and 
he  walked  out  on  me.  His  following! — do  you 
get  that?  Grainger  could  carry  all  the  following 
he's  got  in  the  top  of  his  hat  and  still  have 
plenty  of  room  left  for  his  head.  So  there  you 
are,  my  son — within  ten  days  of  the  tryout  and 
nobody  on  hand  to  play  dear  old  grandfather 
for  you!  And  nobody  in  sight  either — in  case 
anybody  should  happen  to  ask  you." 

"Oh,  we'll  find  somebody,"  said  Offutt  op 
timistically.  The  young  of  the  playwrighting 
species  are  constitutionally  optimistic. 

"Oh,  we  will,  will  we?  Well,  for  example, 
who? — since  you're  so  confident  about  it." 

"That's  up  to  you,"  countered  Offutt,  "I 
should  worry!" 

"Take  it  from  me,  young  man,  you'd  better 
worry,"  growled  Verba  morosely. 

"But,  Verba,"  contended  Offutt,  "there 
must  be  somebody  loose  who'll  fit  the  part. 
What  with  thousands  of  actors  looking  for  en 
gagements———" 

[2H] 


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"Say,  Offutt,  what's  the  use  of  going  over 
that  again?"  broke  in  Verba  in  a  tone  which 
indicated  he  was  prepared  to  go  over  it  again. 
"To  begin  with,  there  aren't  thousands  of  actors 
looking  for  jobs.  There  are  a  few  actors  looking 
for  jobs — and  a  few  thousand  others  looking  for 
jobs  who  only  think  they  can  act.  Offhand,  I 
can  list  you  just  three  men  fit  to  play  this  grand 
father  part — or  four,  if  you  stick  in  Grainger  as 
an  added  starter." 

He  held  up  a  long,  slender  hand,  ticking  off 
the  names  on  his  fingers. 

"There's  Warburton,  and  there's  Pell,  and 
there's  old  Gabe  Clayton.  Warburton's  tied 
up  in  the  pictures.  Damn  the  movies !  They're 
stealing  everybody  worth  a  hang.  I  got  a  swell 
offer  myself  yesterday  from  the  Ziegler  crowd 
to  direct  features  for  'em.  The  letter's  on  my 
desk  now.  Old  Gabe  is  in  a  sanitarium  taking 
the  rest  cure — which  means  for  the  time  being 
he's  practically  sober,  but  not  available  for  us 
or  anybody  else.  And  Guy  Pell's  under  contract 
to  Fructer  Brothers,  and  you  know  what  a  swell 
chance  there  is  of  their  loaning  him  to  our 
shop. 

"That  doesn't  leave  anybody  but  Grainger, 
who's  so  swelled  up  with  conceit  that  he's  im 
possible.  And,  anyhow,  he's  too  young.  Just 
as  I  told  you  yesterday,  I  only  figured  him  in 
as  a  last  chance.  I  don't  want  a  young  fellow 
playing  this  part — with  his  face  all  messed  up 
with  false  whiskers  and  an  artificial  squeak  in 
[212] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 

his  voice.  I  want  an  old  man — one  that  looks 
old  and  talks  old  and  can  play  old. 

"He's  got  to  be  right  or  nothing's  right.  You 
may  have  written  this  piece,  boy;  but,  by  gum, 
I'm  responsible  for  the  way  it's  cast,  and  I  want 
a  regular,  honest-to-God  grandfather.  Only," 
he  added,  quoting  the  tag  of  a  current  Broad 
way  story,  "only  there  ain't  no  such  animal." 

"I  still  insist,  Verba,"  put  in  Offutt,  "that 
you  overestimate  the  importance  of  the  grand 
father — he's  only  a  character  bit." 

"Son,"  said  Verba,  "you  talk  like  an  author! 
Maybe  you  thought  he  was  a  bit  when  you  wrote 
him  in;  but  he's  not.  He's  going  to  carry  this 
play.  He's  the  axle  that  the  whole  action  turns 
on  and  if  he's  wrong  the  whole  thing's  wrong. 
If  he  falls  down  your  play  falls  down." 

"Well,  suppose  he  is,"  said  Offutt  plaintive 
ly.  The  bruised  worm  was  beginning  to  turn. 
""Am  I  to  blame  because  I  write  a  part  so  human 
and  so  lifelike  that  nobody's  competent  to  do  it?  " 

Verba  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance  and  grinned 
sardonically.  "Don't  ask  me  whose  fault  it 
is,"  he  said.  "I  know  this:  In  the  old  days 
actors  were  actors."  Verba,  who  was  perhaps 
forty-four,  spoke  with  the  air  of  having  known 
Edmund  Kean  intimately.  "They  bred  real 
artists  then — people  who  had  versatility  and  a 
range.  You  got  hold  of  a  play  and  you  went 
out  and  hired  a  bunch  of  troupers,  and  they 
played  it  for  you.  Now  we  don't  have  actors 

any  more — we  only  have  types. 

[  213  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

"Everybody's  a  type.  A  man  or  a  woman 
starts  out  being  one  kind  of  type,  and  sticks 
right  there.  Dramatists  write  parts  for  types, 
and  managers  go  out  and  hire  types  for  the 
parts.  Sometimes  they  can't  find  the  right 
type  and  then  there's  another  expensive  pro 
duction  taking  a  trip  to  its  eternal  rest  in  the 
storehouse.  I  don't  know  whose  fault  it  is — 
I  only  know  it's  not  mine.  It's  hell — that's 
what  it  is — simply  hell!" 

Gloom  choked  Verba.  He  stared  moodily 
ahead  of  him,  where  the  broad  of  a  wide,  blue- 
ginghamed  back  showed  above  the  draped  tops 
of  the  next  row  of  seats  but  one.  Suddenly  he 
smote  his  hands  together. 

"Bateman!"  he  exclaimed.  "Old  Bird  Bate- 
man!" 

Up  from  behind  the  next  row  of  seats  but 
one  rose  a  chorelady  with  her  nose  in  the  air 
and  her  clenched  fists  on  the  places  where  her 
hips  should  have  been — if  she  had  any  hips. 

"I  beg  your  par-r-don?"  she  inquired,  quiv 
ering  with  a  grand,  indignant  politeness;  "was 
you  referrin'  to  me  as  an  ould  boid?" 

"Madam,"  said  Verba,  "resume  your  pleas 
ures.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you." 

"Thin  why  was  you  lookin'  at  me  whin  you 
said  it?  You  may  be  the  owner  of  this  bum 
dump,  f'r  all  I  care,  but  job  or  no  job,  let  me 
tell  you  this,  young  man — there's  no  black 
Prowtestant  Jew  alive  kin  call  me  out  of  me 
own  name  an' " 

[214] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


"Oh,  shut  up,"  said  Verba,  without  heat. 
He  got  on  his  feet.  "Come  on,  Offutt,  the  lady 
thinks  I'm  trying  to  flirt  with  her  and  between 
the  three  of  us,  we're  breaking  up  rehearsals. 
Let's  get  out — I've  got  an  idea."  In  the  half 
light  his  eyes  shone  like  a  cat's. 

Outside,  on  the  hot  pavement,  he  took  Offutt 
by  the  lapels  of  his  coat.  "Boy,"  he  said,  "did 
you  ever  hear  of  Burton  Bateman — better 
known  as  Old  Bird  Bateman?" 

Offutt  shook  his  head. 

"Never  did,"  he  confessed. 

"You're  too  young  at  this  game  to  remem 
ber,  I  guess,"  said  Verba.  "Well,  then,  did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  Scudder  Stock  Com 
pany?" 

"Of  course  I've  heard  of  that,"  said  Offutt. 
"It  was  long  before  my  time  though." 

"It  was  long  before  everybody's  time,"  as 
sented  Verba.  "Ten  years  is  the  same  as  a  cen 
tury  on  this  street.  But  twenty-five  years  ago 
Burt  Bateman  played  leads  with  the  Scudder 
Stock  Company — yes;  and  played  juveniles  and 
walking  gentlemen  and  friends  of  the  family 
and  long-lost  heirs  and  Dutchmen  and  Irishmen 
and  niggers — played  high-comedy  parts  and 
low-comedy  parts — played  anything  there  was 
to  play. 

"He  wasn't  one  of  your  single-barrelled  mod 
ern  types  and  none  of  your  old-time  ranting 
scenery-biters  either;  he  was  an  actor.  If  he'd 
come  along  a  little  later  they'd  have  made  a 
[215] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


star  out  of  him  and  probably  ruined  him.  You'd 
have  remembered  him  then.  But  he  never  was 
a  star.  He  never  was  featured  even.  He  just 
kept  right  on  being  an  actor.  And  gee,  how 
he  could  eat  up  an  old  man's  part!" 

"You  speak  of  him  as  though  he  were  dead," 
said  Offutt. 

"He  might  as  well  be — he's  forgotten,"  said 
Verba,  unconsciously  coining  all  Broadway's 
epitaph  for  all  Broadway's  tribe.  "I  haven't 
seen  him  for  fifteen  years,  but  I  understand  he's 
still  alive — that  is,  he  hasn't  quit  breathing. 
Somebody  was  telling  me  not  long  ago  they'd 
crossed  his  trail  'way  downtown. 

"You  see,  Burt  Bateman  was  a  character  in 
his  way,  just  as  old  Nate  Scudder  was  one  in 
his  way.  I  guess  that's  why  they  hung  together 
so  long.  When  the  theatrical  district  started 
to  move  uptown  Nate  wouldn't  move  with  it. 
It  moved  from  Fourteenth  Street  to  Twenty- 
third,  and  from  there  to  Thirty-fourth,  and 
from  there  to  Forty-second — and  it's  still 
headed  north.  But  Scudder  stayed  where  he 
was.  And  it  broke  him — broke  his  heart,  too, 
I  guess.  Anyhow,  he  died  and  his  organisation 
scattered — all  but  Bateman.  He  wouldn't 
scatter.  The  heirs  fell  out  and  the  estate — 
what  was  left  of  it — got  tied  up  in  litigation; 
and  it's  been  tied  up  ever  since." 

He  turned  and  waved  a  long  arm  at  a  passing 
taxi.  The  driver  curved  his  machine  up  to  the 

curb. 

[216] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


"Come  on!"  said  Verba,  making  to  cross  the 
sidewalk. 

"Come  on  where?"  asked  Offutt. 

"We're  going  to  University  Place — you  and 
me,"  said  Verba,  quickened  and  alive  all  over 
with  his  inspiration.  "We're  going  down  to 
Scudder's  Theatre.  Didn't  know  there  was 
such  a  theatre  as  Scudder's,  did  you?  Well, 
there  is — what's  left  of  it.  We're  going  down 
there  to  find  Old  Bird  Bateman.  That's  where 
he  was,  last  accounts.  And  if  the  booze  hasn't 
got  him  he's  going  to  play  that  damn  grand 
father  in  this  show  of  yours." 

"Can  he  do  it?" 

Verba  halted  with  one  foot  in  the  taxi. 

"Can  he  do  it?  Watch  him,  boy— that's  all! 
Just  watch  him.  Say,  it's  a  notion — digging 
that  old  boy  out  of  the  graveyard. 

"You  never  heard  of  him  and  I'd  forgotten 
him;  but  you  take  a  lot  of  these  old-timers  who 
don't  think  there' ve  been  any  actors  since  Fanny 
Davenport  and  Billy  Florence — they'll  remem 
ber  him.  And  you  bet  they'll  come  to  see  him. 
We'll  give  this  town  a  sensation — and  that's 
what  it  loves,  this  town — sensations." 

Once  upon  a  time — that  was  when  he  was  a 
green  reporter  newly  come  to  town — Offutt 
had  known,  more  or  less  minutely,  almost  every 
prowlable  inch  of  the  tip  of  the  long  seamy 
tongue  of  rock  that  is  called  Manhattan  Island. 
Now,  as  a  story-writer  and  a  play-writer,  he 
only  went  down  there  when  he  sought  for  local 
[217] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


colour  in  Greenwich  Village,  or  around  Wash 
ington  Square  or  on  the  lower  East  Side.  As 
for  Verba,  he  found  his  local  colour,  ready- 
mixed,  in  scene-painters'  pots  and  make-up 
boxes.  Being  a  typical  New  Yorker — if  there 
is  such  a  thing — he  was  as  insular,  as  provincial, 
as  closely  bound  to  his  own  briefened  ranging 
ground  as  none  but  a  typical  New  Yorker  can 
be.  To  him  this  wasn't  a  metropolis  of  five 
boroughs,  many  bridges  and  five-and-a-half 
millions.  To  him  this  was  a  strip  of  street, 
something  less  than  two  miles  long,  with 
shorter  stretches  of  street  meeting  it  at  right 
angles,  east  and  west,  as  ribs  meet  a  spine. 
His  map  of  New  New  York  would  have  resem 
bled  a  codfish's  skeleton,  its  head  aiming  to 
ward  far-away  Harlem,  the  fork  in  its  tail  point 
ing  to  the  distant  Battery.  To  him  therefore 
Twenty -third  Street  was  Farthest  South.  What 
might  lie  below  was  in  the  Antarctic  Circle  of 
community  life. 

They  crossed  Twenty-third  Street  and  in 
vaded  a  district  grown  strange  to  his  eyes — a 
district  where  tall  loft  buildings,  the  successors 
to  the  sweatshops  of  an  earlier,  but  not  very 
much  earlier,  day,  mounted,  floor  by  floor, 
above  the  humbler  roofs  of  older  houses.  They 
crossed  Fourteenth,  the  taxi  weaving  a  way 
through  dense  masses  of  men  who  gabbled  in 
strange  tongues  among  themselves,  for  lunch- 
time  had  come  and  the  garment  workers,  the 
feather-workers  and  the  fur-workers,  deserting 
[218] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


their  work  benches  for  an  hour,  had  flocked 
into  the  open,  packing  the  sidewalks  and  over 
flowing  upon  the  asphalt,  to  chaffer  and  gossip 
and  take  the  air.  Just  below  Fourteenth  Street 
they  swung  eastward  and  turned  into  Univer 
sity  Place,  which  is  a  street  of  past  memories 
and  present  acute  activities,  and,  in  a  minute, 
obeying  Verba's  instructions,  their  driver 
brought  them  to  a  standstill  before  a  certain 
number. 

"  Give  it  the  once-over,"  advised  Verba  as  he 
climbed  out  and  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  fare. 
"You  can  figure  for  yourself  how  far  out  of  the 
world  it  is — nobody's  had  the  nerve  to  try  to 
open  it  up  as  a  moving-picture  palace.  And 
that's  the  tip-off  on  any  shack  in  this  burg 
that'll  hold  a  crowd,  a  screen  and  a  projecting 
machine  all  at  the  same  time." 

Offutt  looked,  and  marvelled  that  he  had 
never  noticed  this  place  before  since  surely, 
covering  assignments  or  on  exploration  jaunts, 
he  must  have  passed  it  by  a  score  of  times.  It 
stood  midway  of  the  block.  On  one  side  of  it 
was  a  little  pawnshop,  its  single  grimy  window 
filled  with  the  strange  objects  which  persons 
acquire,  seemingly,  for  pawning  purposes  ex 
clusively — sword-canes  and  mandolins  with 
mother-of-pearl  insets  in  them,  and  moss-agate 
cuff  buttons.  On  the  other  side  was  a  trunk 
store  with  half  of  its  wares  cluttering  the  nar 
row-door  passage  and  signs  everywhere  dis- 
played  to  inform  the  public  that  the  proprietor 
[219] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


was  going  out  of  business  and  must  sell  his 
stock  at  an  enormous  sacrifice,  wherefore  until 
further  notice,  perfectly  ruinous  prices  would 
prevail.  It  appears  to  be  a  characteristic  of  all 
trunk-stores  that  their  proprietors  are  con 
stantly  going  out  of  business  and  that  their 
contents,  invariably,  are  to  be  had  below  cost. 

Between  these  two  establishments  gaped  a 
recessed  and  cavernous  entryway  flanked  by 
two  big  stone  pillars  of  a  dropsical  contour  and 
spanned  over  at  the  top  by  a  top-heavy  cornice 
ponderously  and  painfully  Corinthian  in  aspect. 
The  outjutting  eaves  rested  flat  on  the  coping 
stones  and  from  there  the  roof  gabled  up  sharply. 
Old  gates,  heavily  chained  and  slanting  inward, 
warded  the  opening  between  the  pair  of  pillars, 
so  that  the  mouth  of  the  place  was  muzzled 
with  iron,  like  an  Elizabethan  shrew's. 

Above,  the  building  was  beetle-browed;  be 
low,  it  was  dish-faced.  A  student  of  architec 
tural  criminology  would  pause  before  this 
fagade  and  take  notes. 

The  space  inclosed  within  the  skewed  and 
bent  gate  pickets  was  a  snug  harbour  for  the 
dust  of  many  a  gritty  day.  There  were  little 
grey  drifts  of  it  at  the  foot  of  each  of  the  five 
steps  that  led  up  to  the  flagged  floor  level;  secre 
tions  of  grime  covered  the  barred  double  doors 
on  beyond  the  steps,  until  the  original  colour 
was  only  to  be  guessed  at;  scraps  of  dodgers, 
pieces  of  newspaper  and  tattered  handbills  ad- 
hered  to  every  carved  projection  at  the  feet  of 
[220] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


the  columns,  like  dead  leaves  about  tree  boles 
in  the  woods. 

On  the  frieze  overhead  might  be  made  out, 
in  lettering  that  once  had  been  gold-leafed,  the 
line:  Scudder's  Family  Theatre.  The  words 
were  scarcely  decipherable  now.  Bill-posters 
had  coated  every  available  inch  of  space  with 
snipes  and  sheets. 

Verba  shook  the  gates  until  the  hasps  gritted 
and  the  chains  clanged. 

"Nobody  at  home,"  he  said.  "I  guess  the 
sheriff  locked  her  up  when  the  lawsuits  started 
and  then  threw  away  the  key.  Well,  let's  scout 
round.  Somebody's  sure  to  know  our  man; 
they  told  me  Bateman  was  a  neighbourhood 
character  down  here.  A  cop  ought  to  be  able 
to  help  us — only  I  don't  see  one.  Maybe  they 
don't  have  cops  in  this  street." 

Speculatively  his  eyes  ranged  the  vista  up 
and  down  the  block  and  opposite.  He  pointed 
to  a  saloon  diagonally  across  the  way,  next 
door  to  the  first  corner  south. 

"When  in  doubt,"  he  said,  "ask  everybody's 
friend.  Come  on;  we'll  go  over  and  brace  the 
barkeep." 

A  young  man,  with  a  humorous  slant  to  his 
eyebrows  and  dark  hair  combed  back  from  the 
forehead  in  neatly  ornate  scallops,  pulled  down 
the  front  of  a  reasonably  clean  white  jacket 
and  spread  both  hands  on  the  bar,  awaiting 
their  pleasure. 

"Mister  Wine  Clerk,"  said  Verba,  using  the 

[221] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


ceremonial  title  of  his  Tenderloin  range,  "we're 
trying  to  find  an  old  boy  named  Bateman — 
Burton  Bateman,  retired  actor  by  profession. 
Ever  hear  of  him?" 

"Sure!"  assented  the  barkeeper.  "He's  part 
of  the  fixtures — Old  Bird  is;  but  he  ain't  about 
now.  To  ketch  him,  you've  come  an  hour  late." 

"Lives  round  here  somewhere,  doesn't  he?" 

"Search  me,"  said  the  young  man  succinctly. 
"I  guess  he  don't  exactly  live  anywhere — not 
in  a  regular  lodging  house  or  anything  like  that. 
See?  I  never  asked  him — him  being  sort  of 
touchy  about  his  private  affairs — but  I  guess 
he  sleeps  in  some  hole  somewhere.  He  mostly 
does  his  scoffin'  here  though — as  a  guest  of  the 
house." 

"Does  his  what  here?"  asked  Verba. 

"His  scoffin' — his  feedin'.  See?"  The  young 
man  flirted  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  free- 
lunch  counter. 

"Oh!    He  eats  here?" 

"You  said  it!  The  boss — man  that  owns  this 
liquor  store — is  a  kind  of  an  old-timer  round 
here  himself.  I've  heard  him  say  he  knowed 
The  Bird  away  back  yonder  when  the  old  thea 
tre  'crost  the  street  was  runnin'  and  things  was 
breakin'  better  for  the  old  boy  than  what  they 
do  now.  So  he  stakes  him  to  a  drink  every  now 
and  then — Old  Bird  won't  take  a  piece  of  change, 
but  he  will  take  a  drink — and  he  lets  him  browse 
off  the  free  lunch  all  he's  a  mind  to. 

"He  comes  driftin'  in  here  twicet  a  day  reg- 
[  222  ] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


ular  and  fills  up  on  chow  for  nothin' !  But  he's 
been  here  already  and  left  to-day — 'bout  an 
hour  ago.  I  figure  he  won't  be  back  now  till 
'long  about  four  or  five  o'clock." 

Verba  became  cognisant  of  a  tugging  at  his 
coat.  An  incredibly  small,  incredibly  ragged 
boy,  with  some  draggled  first  editions  under  his 
arm,  had  wormed  silently  in  between  his  legs 
and  was  looking  up  at  him  with  one  eye.  The 
boy  had  only  one  eye  to  look  with.  The  other 
eye  was  a  flattened  slit  over  a  sunken  socket. 

* '  Mister !  Say,  Mister ! ' '  beseeched  the  gamin 
earnestly.  "Gimme  fi'  cent  and  I'll " 

"Hey,  you,  Blinky!"  interposed  the  bar 
keeper,  bending  over  the  bar  to  see  the  small 
intruder.  "Beat  it!" 

There  was  a  scurrying  thud  of  bare  feet  on 
the  tiled  floor  and  the  wizened  intruder  magic 
ally  had  vanished  between  the  swinging  doors. 

"You  gents  can  sit  down  and  wait  if  you 
want  to,"  said  the  barkeeper.  "It's  liable  to 
be  a  long  time  though.  Or  I  can  tell  Old  Bird, 
when  he  comes  in,  somebody's  askin'  for  him 
and  try  to  hold  him  for  you.  I  could  phone  you 
even,  if  it's  important — if  you'll  gimme  your 
number." 

"It  is  important — in  a  way,"  said  Verba. 
"Suppose  we  do  that,  Offutt — give  the  wine 
clerk  our  telephone  number." 

He  laid  a  coin  and  a  card  on  the  bar.  The 
young  man  regarded  the  name  and  the  address 
on  the  card  briefly. 

[223  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"All  right!"  he  said,  depositing  the  coin  in 
his  pocket  and  the  card  against  the  mirror  at 
his  back.  "I  won't  forget.  The  old  boy  don't 
have  many  people  lookin'  for  him.  Fact  is,  I 
don't  remember  he  ever  had  anybody  lookin' 
for  him  before.  Are  vou  gents  friends  of  his? 
.  .  .  No?  Well,  anyhow,  I'll  fix  it." 

"Funny  old  sneezer ! "  he  continued.  " Dippy 
a  little  up  here,  I  guess." 

He  tapped  himself  on  the  forehead. 

"If  he  had  a  habit  I'd  say  sometimes  he  was 
hopped.  F'r  instance,  he'll  come  in  here  and 
spiel  off  something  to  me  'bout  havin'  been  in 
his  Louie  Kahn's  drawin'-room — anyhow,  that's 
what  it  sounds  like.  The  only  Louie  Kahn 
round  here  that  I  know  of  runs  a  junk  shop 
over  in  Ninth  Street.  And  it's  a  cinch  that 
Louie  Kahn  ain't  got  no  drawin'-room.  Or 
he'll  tell  me  he's  been  spendin'  the  day  on  the 
seabeach.  Only  yes'day  he  was  handin*  me 
that  junk." 

"Mightn't  he  have  taken  a  little  run  down  to 
Coney?"  suggested  Verba  hopefully. 

"Go  to  Coney — him!"  scoffed  the  barkeeper, 
"Where'd  he  raise  the  coin  for  carfare  down  to 
Coney?  You  can  take  it  from  me,  gents,  Old 
Bird  forgot  what  the  sad  sea  waves  sound  like, 
long  time  ago.  I'll  lay  you  a  little  eight-to-five 
he  ain't  been  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from 
this  liquor  store  in  ten  years.  .  .  .  Well,  good 
day,  gents." 

"It  strikes  me,  Verba,"  began  Offutt  as  they 
[  224  ] 


THE      GREAT      AUK 

passed  out,  "that  possibly  we're  only  wasting 
our  time.  If  what  that  gabby  young  drink 
wrestler  just  said  is  right  we're ' 

Something  wriggled  at  his  knees  and  caromed 
off  against  Verba.  A  single  bright,  greedy  eye 
appraised  them  with  an  upward  flash. 

"Mister!  Mister,  listen!"  pleaded  a  voice, 
the  owner  of  which  managed  somehow  to  be  in 
the  path  of  both  of  them  at  once.  "I  heard 
yous  spielin'  in  there.  I  know  where  Old  Boid 
is.  I  kin  show  yous  where  he  is." 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  Verba. 

"  Gimme  fi'  cent — gimme  ten  cent — first.  It's 
a  secrut.  It's  worth  ten  cent." 

"It  is,"  agreed  Verba  gravely.  "It's  worth 
all  of  ten  cents  now  and  it'll  be  worth  a  quar 
ter  more  to  you,  sonny,  if  you  deliver  the 
goods." 

He  tendered  the  advance  instalment  of  the 
fee  and  a  hand,  all  claws  like  a  bird's  foot, 
snatched  it  away  from  him. 

Blinky  carefully  pouched  the  dime  in  some 
unfathomable  inner  recess  of  his  rags.  Having 
provided  against  any  attempt  to  separate  him 
from  the  retainer  in  the  event  of  the  negotia 
tions  falling  through,  his  code  of  honour  asserted 
itself. 

"It's  a  secrut.  See?  They  ain't  nobody  but 
me  and  two-t'ree  udder  kids  wise  to  it.  Yous 
gotta  swear  yous  won't  tell  'im  nor  nobody 
'twas  me  tipped  yous  off.  If  yous  did  it'd  spoil 
me  graft — he'd  be  sore.  See?  Cold  nights  he 
[  225  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


lets  us  kids  bunk  in  there  wit'  'im.    And  day 
times  we  plays  audiunce  for  'im.    See?" 

"You  play  what  for  him?"  asked  Offutt. 

"C'm  on,  an'  I'll  show  yous,"  bade  Blinky. 
"Only  yous  is  gotta  lay  dead  w'ile  it's  comin* 
off.  See?" 

"We'll  lay  dead,"  pledged  Verba. 

Satisfied,  Blinky  led  the  way.  Mystified,  they 
followed.  He  led  them  back  across  University 
Place  again;  and  on  past  Scudder's  Family  The 
atre,  with  the  lowering  stone  frontal  bone  above, 
and,  below,  the  wide  maw,  bitted  and  gagged 
by  its  scold's  bridle  of  snaffled  iron;  and  on 
round  the  corner  below  into  a  fouled,  dingy 
cross  street. 

Beyond  the  canvas  marquee  of  a  small  walled- 
in  beer  garden  the  child  went  nimbly  through 
a  broken  panel  in  a  short  stretch  of  aged  and 
tottery  wooden  fencing.  Wriggling  through  the 
gap  behind  him  they  found  themselves  in  a 
small  inclosure  paved  with  cracked  flagging. 
Confronting  them  was  a  short  flight  of  iron 
steps,  leading  up  to  a  wide,  venerable-appearing 
doorway,  which  once,  as  the  visible  proof 
showed,  had  been  sealed  up  with  plank  shorings, 
nailed  on  in  vertical  strips. 

"One  of  the  old  side  entrances  to  Scudder's," 
said  Verba.  "Where  the  carriages  used  to 
wait,  I  guess.  The  plot  thickens — eh,  Of 
futt?" 

Offutt  nodded,  his  eyes  being  on  their  small 
guide.     A  little  sense  of  adventure  possessed 
[226] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


them  both.  They  had  the  feeling  of  being  co- 
conspirators  in  a  little  intrigue. 

"Wotcher  waitin'  fur?"  demanded  Blinky. 
"Stick  wit'  me  and  don't  make  no  noise."  He 
climbed  the  iron  steps  and  shoved  the  nail- 
pocked  door  ajar.  "Watch  yer  step!"  he  coun 
selled  as  he  vanished  within.  "It's  kind  o* 
dark  in  yere." 

Kind  o'  dark  was  right.  Straining  their 
eyes  they  stumbled  along  a  black  passage, 
with  Blinky  going  on  ahead  silently.  They 
turned  once  to  the  left  and  once  to  the  right 
and  emerged,  where  the  light  was  somewhat 
clearer,  into  the  shelter  of  a  recess  just  behind 
the  lower  boxes  of  the  abandoned  playhouse. 

"Wow!"  said  Verba  in  a  sort  of  reverential 
undertone,  as  though  he  stood  in  the  presence 
of  death.  "I  haven't  been  here  in  twenty-odd 
years.  Why,  the  last  time  I  was  here  I  was  a 
kid!" 

Veritably  he  did  stand  in  the  presence  of 
death.  The  place  looked  dead  and  smelled 
dead  and  was  dead.  The  air  was  heavy-laden 
with  bone-yard  scents — rot  and  corrosion  and 
rust  and  dust.  With  the  taints  of  moulded 
leather  and  gangrened  metal,  of  worm-gnawed 
woodwork  and  moth-eaten  fabrics,  arose  also 
from  beneath  their  feet  that  other  stench  which 
inevitably  is  begotten  of  neglect  and  lonesome- 
ness  within  any  spot  inclosed  by  walls  and  a 
roof,  provided  sun  and  wind  and  human  usage 
are  excluded  from  it  long  enough.  Offutt  sniffed 
[227] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


and,  over  Verba's  shoulder,  looked  about 
him. 

He  could  make  out  his  immediate  surround 
ings  fairly  well,  for  the  curtains  that  had  guard 
ed  the  windows  in  the  hip  roof  and  round  one 
upper  side  of  the  building  were  turned  by  decay 
into  squares  of  lace-work,  patterned  with  rents 
and  with  cracks  ;*and  in  some  instances  they  had 
fetched  away  from  their  fastenings  altogether. 

Through  the  glass  panes,  and  through  the 
grime  that  bleared  the  glass,  a  measure  of  day 
light  filtered,  slanting  in  pale  bluish  streaks, 
like  spilt  skim  milk,  on  vistas  of  the  faded  red- 
plush  chairs;  on  the  scrolled  and  burdened  deco 
rations  of  the  proscenium  arch;  on  the  seamy, 
stained  curtain;  on  the  torn  and  musty  hangings 
of  the  boxes;  on  an  enormous  gas  chandelier 
which,  swinging  low  over  the  pit  from  the 
domed  ceiling  above,  was  so  clumped  with 
swathings  of  cobweb  that  it  had  become  a 
great,  dangling  grey  cocoon. 

Curving  in  wide  swings  from  above  their 
heads  to  the  opposite  side  ran  three  balconies, 
rising  one  above  the  other,  and  each  supported 
by  many  fat  pillars.  The  spaces  beneath  these 
galleries  were  shadowy  and  dark,  seeming  to 
stretch  away  endlessly.  So,  too,  was  the  per 
spective  of  the  lower  floor,  at  the  back,  elab 
orated  by  the  gloom  into  a  vast,  yawning  mouth 
which  fairly  ached  with  its  own  emptiness. 
But  at  the  front  the  screened  angles  of  sunlight, 
stippled  as  they  were  with  billions  of  dancing 

[  228  ] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 

motes,  brought  out  clearly  enough  the  stage  of 
the  old  theatre  and,  down  under  the  lip  of  the 
stage,  the  railed  inclosure  of  the  orchestra  and, 
at  either  side,  the  scarred  bulkheads  and  fouled 
drapings  of  the  stage  boxes,  upper  tier  and 
lower  tier. 

Close  at  hand  Offutt  was  aware  of  crawling 
things  which  might  be  spiders,  and  a  long  grey 
rat  which  scuffled  across  the  floor  almost  be 
neath  his  feet,  dragging  its  scaled  tail  over  the 
boards  with  a  nasty  rasping  sound.  He  heard 
other  rats  squealing  and  gnawing  in  the  wain 
scoting  behind  him.  He  was  aware,  also,  of  the 
dirt,  which  scabbed  and  crusted  everything. 
And  he  felt  as  though  he  had  invaded  the  vault 
of  an  ancient  tomb.  Sure  enough,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  he  had  done  just  that. 

"Some  place — huh,  mister?"  said  the  small 
gutter-sparrow  proudly,  and,  though  he  spoke 
in  a  whisper,  Offutt  jumped.  "Stick  yere,  yous 
two,"  ordered  the  child.  "  Somethin'll  be  comin' 
off  in  a  minute." 

Seemingly  he  had  caught  a  signal  or  a  warn 
ing  not  visible  to  the  older  intruders.  Leaving 
them,  he  ran  briskly  down  a  side  aisle,  and  ap 
parently  did  not  care  now  how  much  noise  he 
might  make,  for  he  whooped  as  he  ran.  He 
flung  his  papers  aside  and  perched  himself  in  a 
chair  at  the  very  front  of  the  pit.  He  briskly 
rattled  the  loose  back  of  the  chair  in  front  of 
him,  and,  inserting  two  dirty  fingers  at  the  cor- 
ners  of  his  mouth,  emitted  the  shrill  whistle 
[229] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


by  which  a  gallery  god,  since  first  gallery  gods 
were  created  into  an  echoing  world,  has  testi 
fied  to  his  impatient  longings  that  amusement 
be  vouchsafed  him. 

As  though  the  whistle  had  been  a  command, 
the  daubed  old  curtain  shivered  and  swayed. 
A  dead  thing  was  coming  to  life.  Creaking 
dolefully,  it  rolled  up  and  up  until  it  had  rolled 
up  entirely  out  of  sight. 

A  back  drop,  lowered  at  a  point  well  down 
front,  made  the  stage  shallow.  Once  upon  a 
time  this  back  drop  had  been  intended  to  rep 
resent  a  stretch  of  beach  with  blue  rollers 
breaking  on  beyond.  Faded  as  it  was,  and 
stained  and  cracked  and  scaly  as  it  was  now, 
the  design  of  the  artist  who  painted  it  was  yet 
discernible;  for  he  plainly  had  been  one  who 
held  by  the  pigmented  principle  that  all  sea 
sands  be  very  yellow  and  all  sea  waves  be  very 
blue. 

Out  of  the  far  wings  came  a  figure  of  a  man, 
crossing  the  narrowed  space  to  halt  midway  of 
the  stage,  close  up  to  the  tin  gutter  where  the 
tipless  prongs  of  many  gas-jet  footlights  stood 
up  like  the  tines  in  a  garden  rake.  Verba's  hand 
tightened  on  Offutt's  arm,  dragging  him  farther 
back  into  the  shadows,  and  Verba's  voice  spoke, 
with  a  soft,  tense  caution,  in  Offutt's  ear: 
"Lord!  Lord!"  Verba  almost  breathed  the 
words  out.  :  *  Backward,  turn  backward,  O 

Time,  in  your '  Look  yonder,  Offutt!  It's 

him!" 

[  230] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


He  might  have  spared  the  urging.  Offutt 
was  looking  and,  without  being  told,  knew  the 
man  at  whom  he  looked  was  the  man  the  two 
of  them  had  come  here  to  find.  The  lone 
gamin  in  the  pit  clapped  his  talons  of  hands  to 
gether,  making  a  feeble,  thin  sound.  To  this 
applause,  as  to  a  rousing  greeting,  the  figure 
behind  the  footlights  bowed  low,  then  straight 
ened.  And  Offutt  could  see,  by  one  of  the 
slanting  bars  of  tarnished  daylight,  which 
stabbed  downward  through  the  dusk  of  the 
place,  that  the  man  up  there  on  the  stage  was 
a  very  old  man,  with  a  heavy,  leonine  face  and 
heavy  brows  and  deep-set,  big  grey  eyes,  and 
a  splendid  massive  head  mopped  with  long, 
coarse  white  hair;  and  he  was  dressed  as 
a  fop  of  sixty  years  ago  and  he  carried  him 
self  so. 

The  slash  of  indifferent  sunshine,  slicing  into 
the  gloom  like  a  dulled  sword  blade,  rested  its 
lowermost  tip  full  upon  him.  It  brought  out 
the  bleached  pallor  of  his  skin,  for  his  face  was 
free  from  any  suggestion  of  make-up,  and  it 
showed  the  tears  and  frays  in  his  costume,  and 
the  misshapen  shoes  that  were  on  his  feet,  and 
the  high-shouldered,  long-tailed  coat  and  the 
soiled,  collarless  shirt  which  he  wore  beneath 
the  once  gorgeous  velvet  waistcoat. 

In  one  hand  he  held,  by  a  dainty  grip  on  the 

brim,  a  flat-crowned  derby  hat,  and  between 

the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  twirled  a  slender 

black  walking  stick,  with  the  shreds  of  a  silken 

[231] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


tassel  adhering  to  it.  And  everything  about 
him,  barring  only  the  shoes  and  the  shirt,  which 
plainly  belonged  to  his  everyday  apparel, 
seemed  fit  to  fall  apart  with  age  and  with  shab- 
biness. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said — and  his 
voice  filled  all  the  empty  house  by  reascn  of 
its  strength  and  its  toned  richness — "with  your 
kind  indulgence  I  shall  begin  this  entertainment 
with  an  attempt  at  an  imitation  of  the  elder 
Sothern  in  his  famous  role  of  Lord  Dundreary, 
depicting  him  as  he  appeared  in  one  of  the 
scenes  from  that  sterling  and  popular  comedy, 
Our  American  Cousin,  by  Tom  Taylor,  Es 
quire." 

With  that,  instantly  stepping  into  character, 
he  took  a  mincing,  jaunty  pace  or  two  side 
ways.  Half  turning  toward  an  imaginary  con 
frere  and  addressing  that  mythical  listener,  he 
began  a  speech  which,  being  pieced  together 
with  other  speeches,  at  once  lengthened  into  a 
kind  of  monologue.  But  he  knew  the  lines — 
that  was  plain;  and  he  knew  the  part,  too,  and 
for  the  moment  lived  and  breathed  it,  and  in 
all  regards  veritably  was  it.  That,  likewise,  the 
watching  pair  of  eavesdroppers  could  realise, 
though  neither  of  them  was  of  sufficient  age  to 
remember,  even  had  he  seen,  the  great  crafts 
man  whose  work  old  Bateman  now  was  coun 
terfeiting. 

The  interlopers  looked  on  and,  under  the 
spell  of  a  wizardry,  forgot  indeed  they  were 
[232] 


THE      GREAT      AUK 


interlopers.  For  before  their  eyes  they  saw, 
wonderfully  re-created,  a  most  notable  concep 
tion,  and  afterward  would  have  sworn,  both  of 
them,  that  all  of  it — the  drawl  and  the  lisp,  the 
exaggerated  walk,  the  gestures,  the  play  of  leg 
and  arm,  the  swing  of  body,  the  skew  of  head, 
the  lift  of  eyebrow  even — was  as  true  and  as 
faithful  to  the  original  as  any  mirrored  image 
might  be  to  the  image  itself. 

How  long  they  stood  and  watched  neither 
Verba  nor  Offutt  was  subsequently  able  to  say 
writh  any  reasonable  exactitude.  It  might  have 
been  four  minutes;  it  might  have  been  six,  or 
even  eight.  When  later,  taking  counsel  to 
gether,  they  sought  to  reckon  up  the  time,  the 
estimates  varied  so  widely  they  gave  up  trying 
to  reconcile  them. 

This  much,  though,  they  were  sure  of — that, 
in  his  mumming,  old  Bateman  rose  magically 
triumphant  above  the  abundant  handicaps  of 
his  own  years  and  his  own  physique,  his  garb 
and  his  environment.  Doing  the  undoable,  he 
for  the  moment  threw  aside  his  years  as  one 
might  throw  aside  the  weight  of  a  worn-out 
garment,  and  for  that  moment,  to  suit  his  own 
designs  of  mimicry,  made  floods  of  strength 
and  youthfulness  course  through  those  withered 
arteries. 

The  old  man  finished  with  a  whimsical  turn 

of  his  voice  and  a  flirt  of  his  cane  to  match  it. 

He  bowed  himself  off  with  the  hand  which  held 

the  hat  at  his  breast,   and  promptly  on  the 

[233] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


second  he  disappeared  the  ancient  curtain  began 
to  descend,  Blinky  meanwhile  clapping  with 
all  his  puny  might. 

Offutt  turned  to  his  companion.  Behind  the 
shelter  of  the  box  Verba's  lean,  dark  face  was 
twitching. 

"Is  he  there?  Can  he  act?  Was  I  right?" 
Verba  asked  himself  each  question,  and  himself 
answered  each  with  a  little  earnest  nod.  "Gee, 
what  a  find!" 

"Not  a  find,  Verba,"  whispered  Offutt— "a 
resurrection — maybe.  We've  seen  a  genius  m 
his  grave." 

"And  we're  going  to  dig  him  up."  In  his 
intentness  Verba  almost  panted  it.  "Wait! 
Wait!"  he  added  warningly  then,  though  Offutt 
had  not  offered  to  stir.  "This  is  going  to  be  a 
Protean  stunt,  I  take  it.  Let's  let  him  show 
some  more  of  his  goods;  for,  by  everything 
that's  holy,  he's  got  'em!" 

Up  once  more  the  curtain  lifted,  seemingly 
by  its  own  motive  power;  and  now  the  seaside 
drop  was  raised,  and  they  beheld  that,  behind 
it,  the  stage  had  been  dressed  for  another  scene 
— a  room  in  a  French  house.  A  secretaire,  sadly 
battered  and  marred,  stood  at  one  side;  a  book 
case  with  broken  doors  and  gaping,  empty 
shelves  stood  at  the  other,  balancing  it  off. 
Down  stage  was  an  armchair.  Its  tapestry 
upholstering  was  rotted  through  and  a  freed 
spiral  of  springs  upcoiled  like  a  slender  snake 
from  its  cushioned  seat.  All  three  pieces  were 
[234] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


of  a  pattern — "Louie-the-Something  stuff," 
Verba  would  have  called  them. 

A  table,  placed  fronting  the  chair  but  much 
nearer  the  right  lower  entrance  than  the  chair 
was,  and  covered  with  a  faded  cloth  that  de 
pended  almost  to  the  floor,  belonged  evidently 
to  the  same  set.  The  scenery  at  the  back 
showed  a  balcony,  with  a  wide  French  window, 
open,  in  the  middle.  Beyond  the  window  dan 
gled  a  drop,  dingy  and  discoloured  as  all  the 
rest  was,  but  displaying  dimly  a  jumble  of 
painted  housetops  and,  far  away  in  the  sim 
ulated  distance,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  The 
colours  were  almost  obliterated,  but  the  sugges 
tion  of  perspective  remained,  testifying  still  to 
the  skill  of  the  creator. 

From  the  wings  where  they  had  seen  him 
vanish  Bateman  reappeared.  The  trousers  and 
the  shoes  were  those  he  had  worn  before;  but 
now,  thrown  on  over  his  shirt,  was  the  melan 
choly  wreck  of  what  once  had  been  a  blue  uni 
form  coat,  with  huge  epaulets  upon  the  shoul 
ders  and  gold  braid  upon  the  collar  and  the 
cuffs,  and  brass  buttons  to  fasten  it  in  double- 
breasted  fashion'down  the  front.  Now,  though, 
it  hung  open.  Some  of  the  buttons  were  miss 
ing,  and  the  gold  lacings  were  mere  blackened 
wisps  of  rags. 

Bateman  came  on  slowly,  with  dragging  feet, 
his  arms  and  legs  and  head  quivering  in  a  vio 
lent  palsy.  He  stared  out  of  the  window  as  he 
let  himself  down  carefully  into  the  ruined  arm- 
[  235  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


chair.  His  first  movement  proved  that  he 
played  a  venerable,  very  decrepit  man — a  man 
near  death  from  age  and  ailments;  yet  by  his 
art  he  managed  to  project,  through  the  fleshly 
and  physical  weaknesses  of  the  character,  a 
power  of  dignity,  of  dominance,  and  of  mental 
authority.  He  rolled  his  head  back  weakly. 

'My  child,'  "  he  said,  addressing  a  make- 
believe  shape  before  him,  "'I  must  help  to  re 
ceive  our  brave,  victorious  troops.  See!  I  am 
fittingly  dressed  to  do  them  honour/  ' 

His  tones  were  pitched  in  the  cracked  cackle 
of  senility.  He  paused,  as  though  for  an  answer 
out  of  space.  His  inflection  told  as  he,  in  turn, 
replied  that  this  answer  had  been  a  remon 
strance: 

1  'No,   no,   no!'"   he  said   almost  fiercely. 
"  'You  must  not  seek  to  dissuade  me.' ' 

The  words  stung  Verba's  memory,  raising  a 
welt  of  recollection  there. 

"I've  got  it!"  he  said  exultantly,  not  for 
getting,  though,  to  keep  his  voice  down.  "  Siege 
of  Berlin,  by  that  French  fellow — what's  his 
name? — Daudet ! " 

"I  remember  the  story,"  answered  Offutt. 

"I  remember  the  play,"  said  Verba.  "Some 
body  dramatised  it — Lord  knows  who — and 
Scudder  put  it  on  here  as  a  curtain  raiser.  I 
saw  it  myself,  Offutt — think  of  that!  Sitting 
up  yonder  in  the  old  peanut  roost — a  kid  no 
bigger  than  that  kid  down  there — I  saw  it. 
And  now  I'm  seeing  it  again;  seeing  Burt  Bate- 
[236] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


man  play  the  part  of  the  old  paralytic — you 
know,  the  old  French  officer  who  was  fooled  by 
his  doctor  and  his  granddaughter  into  believing 
the  French  had  licked  the  Germans,  when  all 
the  time  'twas  the  other  way  and " 

"Sh-h!"  counselled  Offutt. 

After  another  little  wait  Bateman  was  going 
on  with  his  scene: 

"'Listen!  Listen!'"  he  cried,  cupping  a 
tremulous  palm  behind  his  ear.  "  'Do  you  not 
hear  them  far  away? — the  trumpets — the  trum 
pets  of  victorious  France!  Our  forces  have  en 
tered  Berlin!  Thank  God!  Thank  God!  All 
Paris  will  celebrate.  I  must  greet  them  from 
the  balcony.'  ' 

With  a  mighty  effort  he  reared  himself  to  his 
feet,  straightening  his  slanted  shoulders,  erect 
ing  his  lolled  head.  His  fingers  fumbled  at  but 
ton  and  buttonhole,  fastening  his  coat  at  the 
throat.  He  swung  one  arm  imperiously,  ward 
ing  off  imaginary  hands. 

"  'The  trumpets!  The  trumpets!  Hark! 
They  come  nearer  and  nearer!  They  sound 
for  the  victory  of  France — for  a  heroic  army. 
I  will  go!  Doctor  or  no  doctor,  I  pay  my 
homage  this  day  to  our  glorious  army.  Stand 
back,  ma  cherie!' 

Offutt,  fifty  feet  away,  caught  himself  strain 
ing  his  ears  to  hear  those  trumpets  too.  A  rat 
ran  across  his  foot  and  Offutt  never  knew  it. 

'They  come!    They  come'  "  chuckled  Bate- 
man. 

[237] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


He  dragged  himself  up  stage,  mounted  the 
two  stairs  to  the  balcony,  and  stood  in  the  win 
dow,  at  attention,  to  salute  the  tri-coloured  flag. 
Nor  did  he  forget  to  keep  his  face  half  turned 
to  the  body  of  the  house. 

He  smiled;  and  the  two  unseen  spies,  staring 
at  that  profiled  head,  saw  the  joy  that  was  in 
the  smile.  Then,  in  the  same  moment,  the  ex 
pression  changed.  Dumb  astonishment  came 
first — an  unbelieving  astonishment;  then  blank 
stupefaction;  then  the  shock  of  horrified  under 
standing;  then  unutterable  rage. 

Offutt  recalled  the  tale  from  which  the  play 
let  had  been  evolved,  and  Verba,  for  his  part, 
recalled  the  playlet;  but,  had  neither  known 
what  they  knew,  the  both  of  them,  guided  and 
informed  only  by  the  quality  of  Bateman's  act 
ing,  still  could  have  anticipated  the  climax  now 
impending;  and,  lacking  all  prior  acquaintance 
with  the  plot  of  it,  yet  would  have  read  that  the 
cripple,  expecting  to  cheer  his  beloved  French, 
saw  advancing  beneath  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
the  heads  of  the  conquering  Germans,  and 
heard,  above  the  calling  bugles,  not  the  Mar 
seillaise,  but  the  strains  of  a  Teuton  marching 
song.  His  back  literally  bristled  with  his  hate. 
He  spun  about  full  face,  a  mortally  stricken 
man.  His  clenched  fists  rose  above  his  head 
in  a  command. 

*"To  arms!  To  arms!*'*  he  screamed  impo- 
tently,  with  the  rattle  already  in  his  throat. 

"  'The  Prussians!  The  Prus '  " 

[238] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


He  choked,  tottered  down  the  steps,  reeled 
forward  and  fell  headlong  out  into  the  room, 
rolling  in  the  death  spasm  behind  the  draped 
table;  and  as,  ten  seconds  later,  the  curtain 
began  to  unroll  from  above  and  lengthen  down, 
Offutt  found  himself  saying  over  and  over  again, 
mechanically : 

"Why,  he's  gone,  isn't  he?" 

"He  kept  the  table  between  him  and  the 
house  and  crawled  out  behind  it — trust  him 
not  to  spoil  his  picture!"  explained  Verba. 
"And  trust  him  to  know  the  tricks  of  his  trade." 
He  tugged  at  Offutt's  elbow.  "Come  on,  boy; 
I've  seen  enough  and  so  have  you,  I  guess. 
Let's  go  sign  him." 

He  fumbled  at  the  wall. 

"  Side  passageway  back  to  the  stage  ought  to  be 
round  here  somewhere.  Here  it  is — that's  lucky ! " 

Guiding  himself  by  the  touching  of  his  out 
stretched  hands  upon  the  walls  of  the  opening, 
Verba  felt  his  way  behind  the  box,  with  Offutt 
stumbling  along  in  his  rear.  So  progressing, 
they  came  to  an  iron-sheathed  door.  Verba 
lifted  its  latch  and  they  were  in  a  place  of 
rancid  smells  and  cluttering  stage  duffel. 
Roaches  fled  in  front  of  them.  On  their  left  a 
small  wooden  door  stood  partly  ajar,  and 
through  the  cranny  they  looked,  as  they  passed, 
into  a  dressing  room,  where  a  pallet  of  old 
hangings  covered  half  the  floor  space,  and  all 
manner  of  dingy  stock  costumings  and  stage 

trappings  hung  upon  hooks. 

[239] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"Here's  where  he  must  sleep,"  said  Verba. 
"What  a  place  for  a  white  man  to  be  living  in!" 

He  felt  for  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  soiled 
hands,  and  then  together  they  saw  Bateman  ad 
vancing  toward  them  from  out  of  the  extreme 
rear  of  the  stage.  Over  his  shoulders  was 
thrown  a  robe  of  heavy  ragged  sacking  and 
upon  his  face  he  had  hung  a  long,  false  beard 
of  white  hair.  He  glared  at  them  angrily.  And 
Offutt,  in  instantaneous  appraisal,  interpreted 
most  surely  the  look  out  of  those  staring  big 
grey  eyes. 

Verba  extended  his  hand  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak;  but  Bateman  was  already 
speaking. 

"What  business  have  you  here?"  he  demand 
ed.  "Strangers  are  not  permitted  here  during 
performances.  How  came  the  stage  doorkeeper 
to  admit  you?  He  has  been  here  too  long,  that 
doorkeeper,  and  he  grows  careless.  I  shall  have 
him  discharged." 

"But,  Mr.  Bateman,"  began  Verba,  half  puz 
zled,  half  insistent,  "I'm  in  the  business  myself. 
I  want  to— 

"Stand  aside!"  ordered  the  old  man  almost 
violently.  "You  cannot  have  been  long  in  the 
business,  young  sir,  else  you  would  be  more 
mannerly  than  to  interrupt  an  artist  when  his 
public  calls  for  him.  Out  of  my  way,  please!" 

He  strutted  by  them  in  stilted  vanity  and 
gripped  the  lifting  ropes  of  the  old  curtain  where 
they  swung  in  the  near  angle  of  the  wings,  and 
[240] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


pulled  downward  on  them  with  an  unexpected 
display  of  muscular  force.  The  curtain  rose; 
and  as  Blinky,  still  at  his  place,  uplifted  a  little 
yell  of  approbation  the  old  man,  bending  his 
shoulders,  passed  out  into  the  centre  of  the 
French  drawing-room  set  and,  extending  a  quiv 
ering  hand,  uttered  sonorously  the  command: 

"  'Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks!  rage! 
blow!" 

"The  mad  scene  from  King  Lear,"  said 
Offutt. 

"Sure— Shakspere!"  agreed  Verba.  "Old 
Scudder  was  a  bug  on  that  Bard  stuff.  So  was 
Bateman.  He  used  to  know  it  from  cover  to 
cover — Othello,  Hamlet,  Lear — the  whole  string. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  Offutt,  I've  found  the  only  man 
to  do  the  grandfather's  part  in  that  show  of 
yours,  haven't  I?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Verba,  but  you're 
wrong,"  stated  Offutt. 

"How  do  you  mean — I'm  wrong?"  demanded 
Verba  irritably.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth 
he  aimed  the  protest  at  his  companion;  but  his 
eyes,  through  the  gap  of  the  first  entrance, 
were  fixed  on  Bateman  as  he  strode  back  and 
forth,  and  his  ears  drank  in  the  splendid  full- 
lunged  volume  and  thrill  of  Bateman's  voice  as 
the  player  spoke  snatches  from  the  play.  "He's 
not  too  old — if  that's  what  you  mean;  he's  just 
about  old  enough.  And  he's  all  there,  even  if 
he  is  old.  Didn't  you  see  the  strength  he  had 
when  he  hoisted  up  that  heavy  curtain?" 

[241] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


"I  think  I  know  where  that  strength  came 
from,"  said  Offutt.  "Just  a  minute,  Verba — 
did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Great  Auk?" 

"He  was  in  vaudeville,  wasn't  he?"  asked 
Verba,  still  staring  at  Bateman.  "A  trick  jug 
gler  or  something?" 

Offutt  forgot  to  smile. 

"The  Great  Auk  was  a  bird,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  see;  and  I've  been  calling  Bateman 
Old  Bird,"  said  Verba.  "I  get  you." 

"No,  you  don't  get  me,"  went  on  Offutt. 
"The  Great  Auk  was  a  rare  creature.  It  got 
rarer  and  rarer  until  they  thought  it  had  van 
ished.  They  sent  an  expedition  to  the  Arctic 
Circle,  or  wherever  it  was  the  thing  bred,  to 
get  one  specimen  for  the  museums;  but  they 
came  back  without  it.  And  now  the  Great 
Auk  is  an  extinct  species." 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  driving  at?  "  snapped 
Verba,  swinging  on  him. 

*  *  Listen  yonder ! ' '  bade  the  dramatist.  *  *  That 
old  man  out  yonder  is  telling  you,  himself,  in 
better  words  than  I  could  tell  you." 

He  pointed  a  finger  through  the  wings.  Cran 
ing  their  necks,  they  heard  the  deep  voice  speak 
the  lines: 

"  'Pray,  do  not  mock  me: 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 

Fourscore  and  upward,  not  an  hour  more  nor  less; 

And,  to  deal  plainly, 

I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind.'  " 

[242] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


Verba  hearkened  and  he  understood.  After 
a  little  he  nodded  in  gloomy  affirmation  of  the 
younger  man's  belief. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Offutt,"  he  said  disap 
pointedly.  "I  guess  I'd  have  seen  it,  too,  only 
I  was  so  sort  of  carried  away.  Real  acting 
does  me  that  way — when  I  see  it,  which  ain't 
often." 

He  paused  a  minute  in  uncertainty.  Then 
resolution  came  to  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "come  on;  there's  no  use  of 
our  hanging  round  here  any  longer.  I'll  give 
Blinky  his  quarter — he  certainly  earned  it  ten 
times  over — and  then  we'll  go  back  uptown,  and 
I'll  telephone  Grainger  he  can  have  his  seventy- 
five  more  a  week." 

"But  what  are  we  going  to  do  about — him?" 
Offutt  indicated  who  he  meant  with  a  wave  of 
his  arm  toward  the  stage. 

It  was  Verba's  turn.  Verba  knew  the  stage 
and  its  people  and  its  ways  as  Offutt  would 
never  know  them.  He  had  been  an  actor,  Verba 
had,  before  he  turned  managing  director  for 
Cohalan  &  Hymen. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  him?"  he 
repeated;  and  then,  as  though  surprised  that 
the  other  should  be  asking  the  question:  "Why, 
nothing!  Offutt,  every  haunted  house  is  en 
titled  to  its  ghost.  This  is  a  haunted  house  if 
ever  there  was  one;  and  there's  its  ghost,  stand 
ing  out  there.  You  mentioned  an  extinct  spe- 
cies,  didn't  you?  Well,  you  were  dead  right, 

[  243  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


son.  So  take  your  good-by  look  now,  before 
we  go,  at  the  last  of  a  great  breed.  There'll  be 
no  more  like  him,  I'm  thinking." 

"But  we  can't  leave  him  here  like  this!"  said 
Offutt.  "His  mind  is  gone — you  admit  it  your 
self.  They've  got  hospitals  and  asylums  in 
this  state — and  homes  too.  It  would  be  a  mercy 
to  take  him  with  us." 

"Mercy?  It  would  be  the  dam'dest  cruelty 
on  earth!"  snapped  Verba.  "How  long  do  you 
suppose  he'd  live  in  an  asylum  if  we  tore  him 
up  by  the  roots  and  dragged  him  away  from 
this  place?  A  week?  I  tell  you,  a  week  would 
be  a  blamed  long  time.  No,  sir;  we  leave  him 
right  here.  And  we'll  keep  our  mouths  shut 
about  this  too.  Come  on!" 

He  tiptoed  to  the  iron  door  and  opened  it  softly. 
Then,  with  his  hand  on  the  latch,  he  halted. 

Bateman  was  just  finishing.  He  spoke  the 
mad  king's  mad  tag-line  and  got  himself  off 
the  stage.  He  unreeled  the  stay  rope  from  its 
chock.  The  curtain  rumbled  down.  Through 
it  the  insistent  smacking  of  Blinky's  skinny  paws 
could  be  heard. 

Smiling  proudly  the  old  man  listened  to  the 
sound.  He  forgot  their  presence  behind  him. 
He  stood  waiting.  Blinky  kept  on  applauding 
— Blinky  was  wise  in  his  part  too.  Then,  still 
smiling,  Bateman  stripped  off  his  beard,  and, 
putting  forth  a  bony  white  hand,  he  plucked 
aside  the  flapping  curtain  and  stepped  forth 

once  more. 

[  244  ] 


THE      GREAT     AUK 


Scrouging  up  behind  him  and  holding  the 
curtain  agape,  they  saw  him  bow  low  to  the 
pit  where  Blinky  was,  and  to  the  empty  boxes, 
and  to  the  yawning  emptiness  of  each  balcony; 
and  they  knew  that  to  him  this  was  not  a 
mangy  cavern  of  dead  memories  and  dead  tra 
ditions  and  dead  days,  peopled  only  by  gnawing 
rats  and  crawling  vermin  and  one  lone  little 
one-eyed  street  boy,  but  a  place  of  living  gran 
deurs  and  living  triumphs.  And  when  he  spoke, 
then  they  knew  he  spoke,  not  to  one  but  to  a 
worshipping,  clamorous  host. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began,  with  a 
bearing  of  splendid  conceit,  "I  thank  you  for 
the  ovation  you  have  given  me.  To  an  artist — 
to  an  artist  who  values  his  art — such  moments 
as  this  are  most  precious " 

"Come  on,  Offutt!"  whispered  Verba  hus 
kily.  "Leave  him  taking  his  call." 


[  245  ] 


CHAPTER  VII 

FIRST   CORINTHIANS 
CHAP.   XIII.,  v.    4 


SINCE  this  must  deal  in  great  part  with 
the  Finkelstein  family  and  what  charity 
did  for  them,  I  began  the  task  by  seeking 
in  the  pages  of  an  invaluable  book 
called  Ten  Thousand  Familiar  Quotations  for 
a  line  that  suitably  might  serve  as  the  text  to 
my  chapter.  Delving  there  I  came  upon  abun 
dant  material,  all  of  it  more  or  less  appropriate 
to  our  present  purpose.  There  were  revealed 
at  least  a  half  a  dozen  extracts  from  the  works 
of  writers  of  an  established  standing  that  might 
be  made  to  apply.  For  instance,  Wordsworth, 
an  English  poet  of  the  Early  Victorian  Era, 
that  period  which  gave  so  much  of  rhythmic 
thought  to  Britain  and  so  much  of  antirhyth- 
mic  furniture  to  us,  is  credited  with  having  said : 

The  charities  that  soothe  and  heal  and  bless 

Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man  like  flowers. 

[246] 


FIRST     CORINTHIANS 


Now  that  passage,  at  first  blush,  appeared  ex 
actly  to  fit  the  Finkelsteins.  Most  certainly 
charities  were  scattered  at  their  feet  and  like 
wise  showered  on  their  heads. 

However,  before  making  a  definite  choice,  I 
went  deeper  into  this  handy  volume.  As  a  re 
sult,  I  exhumed  an  expression  attributed  to 
Pope — not  one  of  the  Roman  Popes,  but  Pope, 
Alex.  (b.  1688;  d.  1744)— to  the  effect  that 

In  faith  and  hope  the  world  will  disagree, 
But  all  mankinds  concern  is  charity. 

That  statement  likewise  proved  in  a  measure 
applicable.  To  the  Finkelsteins  it  must  have 
seemed  that  all  mankind's  concern  was  charity, 
devised  for  their  especial  benefit. 

Now  Hood  takes  an  opposite  view.  In  that 
choppy  style  of  versification  so  characteristic 
of  this  writer,  Hood  is  discovered  saying: 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun! 

Speaking  with  particular  reference  to  the  case 
in  hand  I  must  respectfully  but  nevertheless 
firmly  take  issue  with  the  late  Hood.  Assuredly 
the  components  of  this  particular  household 
group  had  no  cause  to  cavil  concerning  the 
rarity  of  Christian  charity.  Christian  charity 
went  miles  out  of  its  way  to  lavish  rich  treas 
ures  from  a  full  heart  upon  them.  Under  the 
sun,  too,  under  the  rays  of  an  ardent  and  a 

[247] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


scorching  sun,  was  some  of  it  bestowed.  But  of 
that  phase,  more — as  the  fancy  writers  say — 
anon. 

The  Scriptures  were  found  to  abound  in  refer 
ence  to  this  most  precious  of  the  human  virtues. 
What  does  Peter  say?  Peter — First  Epistle, 
fourth  chapter  and  eighth  verse — says:  "Char 
ity  shall  cover  the  multitude  of  sins."  Here, 
too,  a  point  might  be  stretched  without  giving 
offence  to  any  interested  party.  I  cannot  deny 
there  were  a  multitude  of  Finkelsteins.  That, 
there  is  no  gainsaying. 

Elsewhere  in  the  Good  Book  it  is  set  forth: 
"Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and 
of  angels,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as 
sounding  brass,  or  a  tinkling  cymbal;  .  .  .  and" 
— furthermore — "though  I  have  all  faith,  so 
that  I  could  remove  mountains,  and  have  not 
charity,  I  am  nothing." 

One  of  the  most  significant  recollections  of  at 
least  two  members  of  the  Finkelstein  family  in 
their  experiences  with  the  manifestations  of 
charity  was  associated  with  mountains.  And 
was  not  the  occasion  of  the  outing  of  the  Even 
ing  Dispatch's  Fresh  Air  Fund  made  glad  by  the 
presence  and  the  activities  of  Prof.  Washing 
ton  Carter's  All-Coloured  Silver  Cornet  Band? 
If  ever  you  heard  this  organisation  you  would 
know  that,  when  it  came  to  sounding  brass  and 
cymbals  which  tinkled  when  not  engaged  in 
clashing,  no  band  had  anything  whatsoever  on 

Prof.  Washington  Carter's. 

[248] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


But  it  was  hard  by,  in  the  Testaments,  that  I 
happened  on  the  one  verse  which  seemed  best  to 
sum  up  the  situation  in  its  more  general  aspects; 
and  notably  the  first  three  words  of  the  said 
verse.  The  text  has  been  chosen,  therefore, 
after  much  consideration  of  the  subject  and  its 
merits. 

To  proceed:  In  Pike  Street,  approximately 
midway  of  a  block  that  enjoys  the  dubious  dis 
tinction  of  being  a  part  of  the  most  congested 
district  of  the  globe,  up  four  flights  of  stairs  and 
thence  back  to  the  extreme  rear,  the  Finkelstein 
family,  at  the  time  of  its  discovery,  resided. 
There  were  many  of  them  and  their  lot  was  very 
lowly.  To  begin  at  the  top,  there  was  Papa 
Finkelstein,  a  man  bearded  and  small,  shrink 
ing,  unobtrusive  and  diffident;  fashioned  with 
sloping  shoulders  and  an  indented  chest  as 
though  in  his  extreme  youth,  when  his  bones 
were  supple  and  yielding,  a  partly  successful 
effort  had  been  made  to  crowd  him,  head  first, 
into  a  narrow-mouthed  jar.  His  back  was  bent, 
for  he  was  of  the  race  that  for  more  than  nineteen 
centuries  has  borne,  palfrey-like,  upon  its  pa 
tient  spines  the  persecutions  of  the  world. 

Next  in  order  came  Mamma  Finkelstein, 
hiding  her  dark  head  beneath  a  wig  of  slick 
brown  horsehair  in  accordance  with  the  same 
ritual  which  ordained  that  her  husband  should 
touch  not  the  corners  of  his  beard.  To  attend 
to  the  business  of  multiplying  and  replenishing 
the  earth  with  Finkelsteins  was  her  chief  mis- 
[249] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


sion  in  life.  From  the  family  stepladder  of 
these  two  no  rungs  were  missing.  Indeed, 
about  a  third  of  the  way  down  there  was  a 
double  rung — to  wit,  twins.  The  married  life 
of  the  pair  extended  over  a  period  of  less  than 
eleven  years  and  already  there  were  eight  little 
Finkelsteins,  ranging  from  little  to  littler  to 
littlest. 

Papa  Finkelstein  was  by  profession  an  old-clo' 
man.  It  was  his  custom  to  go  into  the  favoured 
sections  where  people  laid  aside  their  weathered 
habiliments  instead  of  continuing  to  wear  them, 
and  there  watching  on  street  corners  to  waylay 
pedestrians  of  an  ample  and  prosperous  aspect, 
and  to  inquire  of  them  in  his  timid  and  twisted 
English,  whether  they  had  any  old  clothes  to 
sell.  A  prospective  seller  being  by  this  method 
interested,  Papa  Finkelstein  would  accompany 
the  other  to  his  apartment — follow  him,  rather 
— and  when  discarded  garments  had  been 
fetched  forth  from  closets  and  piled  in  a  heap 
upon  the  floor  he  would  gaze  deprecatingly  at 
the  accumulation  and  then,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  courts  rum  by  his  excessive  generosity, 
tender  one  dollar  and  thirty-five  cents  for  the 
entire  lot. 

So  far  so  good,  this  course  being  in  perfect 
accord  with  the  ethics  of  the  old-clo'  business. 
But  if,  as  most  generally,  the  owner  of  the  rai 
ment  indignantly  declined  the  first  offer  Papa 
Finkelstein  was  at  a  loss  to  proceed  with  the 
negotiations.  The  chaffering;  the  bargaining; 
[250] 


FIRST     CORINTHIANS 


the  raising  of  the  amount  in  ten-cent  advances, 
each  advance  accompanied  by  agonised  outcry; 
the  pretended  departure;  the  reluctant  return 
from  the  door;  the  protest;  the  entreaty;  the 
final  gesture,  betokening  abject  and  complete 
surrender,  with  which  the  buyer  came  up  to  two 
dollars  and  fifteen  cents — all  this,  so  agreeable  to 
the  nature  of  the  born  old-clo'  man,  was  quite 
beyond  him.  Oftener  than  not,  the  trading 
ended  in  no  trade. 

Or  if  a  bargain  w?,s  arrived  at,  if  he  bore  away 
his  bundled  purchases  to  the  old-clothes  mart  on 
Bayard  Street,  just  off  the  Bowery,  where  daily 
the  specialist  in  sick  hats,  let  us  say,  swaps 
decrepit  odd  trousers  and  enfeebled  dress  waist 
coats  for  wares  more  suitable  to  his  needs,  still 
he  tempted  bankruptcy.  Sharper  wits  than 
his,  by  sheer  weight  of  dominance,  bore  him 
down  and  trafficked  him,  as  the  saying  goes, 
out  of  his  eyeteeth.  He  could  have  taken  over 
a  tannery  and  run  it  into  a  shoestring  in  no 
time  at  all.  Many  a  day  was  there  when  he  re 
turned  home  at  eventide  with  nothing  to  show 
for  his  day's  industry  except  lamentable  memo 
ries  and  two  tired  flat  feet. 

Lacking  the  commercial  instinct,  he  was  a 
failure  in  trade;  lacking,  too,  the  artistic, 
neither  would  he  have  made  headway  with  his 
coreligionists  as  a  professional  Schnorrer.  By 
persistent  and  devoutful  attendance  upon  syn 
agogue  services,  by  the  constant  exhibition  of 
his  poverty  in  public  places,  he  might  have  en- 
[251] 


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listed  the  sympathies  of  the  benevolent  among 
his  fellow  worshippers.  But  he  was  a  dilettante 
in  the  practice  of  piety,  even  as  in  the  practice 
of  the  old-clo'  business.  Except  as  the  head  of 
a  family,  he  was  what  this  world  is  pleased  to 
call  a  failure. 

From  all  this  I  would  not  have  you  jump  at 
the  conclusion  that  Papa  and  Mamma  Finkel- 
stein  and  their  steadily  accruing  progeny  con 
stituted  an  unhappy  group.  Mere  precarious 
existence  and  the  companionship  of  one  another 
spelled  for  them  contentment.  The  swarming 
East  Side  satisfied  them  as  an  abiding  place. 
To  the  adults  it  was  a  better  home  by  far  than 
the  drear,  dreadful  land  of  pogroms  and  Black 
Hundreds  from  which  they  had  fled;  to  the 
younger  ones  it  was  the  only  home  they  had  ever 
known.  They  were  used  to  its  tormented  sky 
lines,  faced  in  on  either  side  by  tall  tenements 
and  blocked  across  by  the  structures  of  elevated 
roads  and  the  stone  loops  of  viaducts;  they 
were  used  to  its  secondhand  sunshine  that  fil 
tered  down  to  them  through  girders  and  spans. 
To  them  the  high  arch  of  the  Bridge  approach 
was  an  acceptable  substitute  for  the  rainbow; 
their  idea  of  the  profusion  of  Nature  was  a  tiny 
square,  containing  many  green  benches,  a  cir 
cular  band  stand,  and  here  and  there  a  spindling 
tree. 

Having  nothing  they  craved  for  nothing. 
When  there  was  food  they  ate  thereof;  kosher 
food  preferably,  though  the  food  of  the  Goyim 
[252] 


FIRST     CORINTHIANS 


was  not  despised.  When  there  was  none  they 
went  without,  feeding  on  the  thought  of  past 
feasts  and  the  hope  of  future  ones.  Being  with 
out  knowledge  of  the  commoner  rule  of  hygiene, 
their  days  were  neither  enhanced  by  its  ad 
vantages  nor  disturbed  by  its  observances. 

With  the  coming  of  the  winter  Mamma  Fink- 
elstein  sewed  up  her  offspring,  all  and  sundry,  in 
their  heavy  undergarments.  Only  one  consid 
eration  ever  interposed  to  prevent  her  from  so 
doing — the  occasional  absence  of  any  heavy 
undergarments  in  which  to  sew  them  up.  To 
the  pores,  which  always  ye  have  with  ye,  she 
gave  no  heed.  An  interrupted  duct  more  or  less 
meant  nothing  to  her,  she  being  serenely  un 
aware  of  the  existence  of  such  things  as  ducts, 
anyhow.  In  the  springtime  she  cut  the  stitches 
and  removed  the  garments,  or  such  portions  of 
them  as  had  not  been  taken  up  by  natural 
process  of  absorption,  finding  her  young,  as 
now  newly  revealed,  to  be  pinkish,  though  soiled 
as  to  their  skins,  and  in  every  regard  hale, 
hearty  and  wholesome. 

Thus  abided  the  Finkelsteins  in  their  dire 
and  happy  extremity  at  the  time  of  their  dis 
covery.  The  manner  of  their  being  discovered 
came  about  as  follows: 

Christmastide  impended.  The  spirit  of  it 
was  everywhere  reflected:  in  the  price  tags;  in 
the  swollen  ankles  and  aching  insteps  of  shop 
girls  on  their  feet  behind  counters  twelve  to 
fifteen  hours  a  day;  in  the  harassed  counte- 
[  253  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


nances  and  despairing  eyes  of  shoppers;  in  the 
heaving  sides  and  drooping  heads  of  wearied 
delivery-wagon  teams;  in  the  thoughts  of  the 
children  of  the  rich,  dissatisfied  because  there 
was  nothing  Santa  Claus  could  bring  them  they 
didn't  already  have;  in  the  thoughts  of  the  chil 
dren  of  the  poor,  happy  as  they  pressed  their 
cold  little  noses  against  the  plate-glass  fronts  of 
toy  shop  windows  and  made  discriminating 
selection  of  the  treasures  which  they  would  like 
for  Santa  to  bring  them,  but  knowing  at  the 
same  time  he  couldn't  because  of  his  previous 
engagements  among  the  best  families. 

This  all-pervading  spirit  penetrated  even  into 
the  newspaper  offices,  borne  thither  upon  the 
flapping  wings  of  the  full-page  display  advertise 
ments  of  our  leading  retail  establishments.  One 
of  the  papers — the  Morning  Advocate — compiled 
a  symposium  of  paragraphed  miseries  under  the 
title  of  the  One  Hundred  Most  Deserving  Cases 
of  Charity,  and  on  the  Monday  before  Christ 
mas  printed  it  with  a  view  to  enlisting  the  aid 
of  the  kindly  disposed.  The  list  was  culled 
largely  from  the  files  of  various  philanthropic 
organisations.  But  it  so  befell  that  a  reporter, 
who  had  been  detailed  on  these  assignments, 
was  passing  through  Pike  Street  on  his  way  back 
to  the  office  from  one  of  the  settlement  houses 
when  he  encountered  Papa  Finkelstein,  home 
ward  bound  after  a  particularly  disappointing 
business  day  uptown. 

The  reporter  was  impressed  much  by  the  de- 

[  254  ] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


spondent  droop  of  the  little  man's  sloping 
shoulders  and  by  the  melancholy  smoulder  in  his 
big,  dark  eyes;  but  more  was  he  impressed  by 
the  costume  of  Papa  Finkelstein.  It  was  a  part 
of  Papa  Finkelstein's  burden  of  affliction  that 
he  customarily  wore  winter  clothes  in  the  sum 
mertime  and  summer  clothes  in  the  wintertime. 
On  this  gusty,  raw  December  day  he  wore  some 
body's  summer  suit — a  much  larger  somebody 
evidently — and  a  suit  that  in  its  youth  had 
been  of  light-coloured,  lightweight  flannel.  It 
was  still  lightweight. 

Infolded  within  its  voluminous  breadths  the 
present  wearer  shivered  visibly  and  drew  his 
chilled  hands  farther  up  into  its  flapping  sleeve 
ends  until  he  resembled  the  doubly  mutilated 
victim  of  a  planing-mill  mishap.  If  his  ex 
pression  was  woebegone,  his  shoe  soles  were 
more — they  practically  were  all-begone.  A 
battered  derby  hat — size  about  seven  and  five- 
eighths — threatened  total  extinguishment  of  his 
face,  being  prevented  from  doing  so  only  by  the 
circumstance  of  its  brim  resting  and  pressing 
upon  the  upper  flanges  of  the  owner's  ears. 
They  were  ears  providentially  designed  for  such 
employment.  Broad,  wide  and  droopy,  they 
stood  out  from  the  sides  of  Papa  Finkelstein's 
head  like  the  horns  of  the  caribou. 

This  reporter  was  a  good  reporter.  He  knew 
a  human-interest  story  when  he  met  it  walking 
in  the  road.  He  turned  about  and  tagged  Papa 
Finkelstein  to  his  domicile  and  there,  after 

[  255  ] 


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briefly  inspecting  the  Finkelstein  household 
in  all  its  wealth  of  picturesque  destitution,  he 
secured  the  names  and  the  address  from  the 
head  of  it,  who  perhaps  gave  the  desired  infor 
mation  all  the  more  readily  because  he  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  of  what  use  this  inquiring 
stranger  wished  to  make  of  it. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  reporter  was  saying  to 
the  irritable  functionary  in  charge  of  the  Advo 
cate's  news  desk: 

"Oh,  so-so;  just  fair  to  middling,  most  of 
them;  about  the  usual  run  of  shad.  But,  say, 
I've  got  one  bird  of  a  case.  I  dug  it  up  myself 
— it's  not  down  on  any  of  the  records  I  got 
from  the  charity  people.  When  it  comes  to 
being  plumb  down  and  out  none  of  them  has 
anything  on  the  meek  and  lowly  Finkelsteins." 

"Good!"  said  the  news  editor.  "You  might 
lead  with  it  if  you  want  to.  No,  I  guess  you'd 
better  run  'em  alphabetically — it  won't  do  to  be 
playing  favourites." 

Mark  now,  how  a  little  flame  may  kindle  a 
large  blaze:  The  afternoon  half  sister  of  the 
Morning  Advocate  was  the  Evening  Dispatch. 
Between  the  two  papers,  owned  as  they  were 
by  the  same  gentleman  and  issued  from  the 
same  printshop,  a  bitter  rivalry  prevailed;  it 
generally  does  in  such  instances. 

On  Tuesday  morning  the  city  editor  of  the 
Evening  Dispatch  ran  an  agile  and  practiced  eye 
through  the  story  the  Advocate  had  printed. 
With  his  shears  he  chopped  out  the  first  column 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


of  it.  With  his  pencil  he  ringed  one  paragraph 
in  the  scissored  section  and  then  he  lifted  his 
voice  and  called  to  him  a  young  woman  profes 
sionally  known  as  Betty  Gwin,  who  sat  in  the 
city  room  at  a  desk  somewhat  withdrawn  from 
copy  readers,  rewriters  and  leg  men.  This  dis 
tinction  of  comparative  aloofness  was  hers  by 
right,  she  being  a  special-feature  writer,  under 
yearly  contract,  and,  therefore,  belonging  to 
the  aristocracy  of  the  craft. 

After  the  custom  of  her  sex  Miss  Betty  Gwin 
— whose  real  name,  I  may  state,  in  confidence, 
was  Ferguson — first  put  a  hand  up  to  be  sure 
that  her  hair  was  quite  right  and  then  put  it 
behind  her  to  be  sure  her  belt  made  proper  con 
nection  with  her  skirt  at  the  back;  and  then 
she  answered  her  superior's  call.  Answering  it, 
all  about  her  betokened  confidence  and  com 
petence.  And  why  shouldn't  it?  As  a  pen- 
smith  this  young  person  acknowledged  no  su 
periors  anywhere.  Her  troupe  of  trained  per 
forming  adjectives  was  admitted  to  be  the 
smartest  in  town.  Moreover,  she  was  artisti 
cally  ambidextrous.  Having  written  a  story 
she  would  illustrate  it  with  her  own  hand.  Her 
drawings  were  replete  with  lithesome  curves;  so, 
too,  was  her  literary  style.  None  but  a  Betty 
Gwin  could  write  what  she  wrote;  none  but  a 
Betty  Gwin  properly  illustrate  it  afterward. 

"Fergy,"  said  the  city  editor,  "here's  a  beaut 
for  you — right  in  your  line.  Full  of  that  heart 
throb  junk  nine  ways  from  the  jack.  Those 
[257] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


idiots  upstairs  gave  it  ten  lines  when  it  was 
worth  six  sticks  all  by  itself — buried  it  when 
they  should  have  played  it  up.  You  run  down 
to  this  number  and  get  a  good,  gummy,  pathetic 
yarn.  We'll  play  it  up  for  to-morrow,  with  a 
strong  picture  layout  and  a  three-col,  head. 
Might  call  it:  'What  Christmas  Means 
for  the  WhatyoumaycaU'em  Family  and 
What  Christmas  Might  Mean  for  Them!' 
Get  me?" 

He  passed  over  the  clipping.  In  a  glance  his 
star  comprehended  the  pencilled  passage. 

"Judging  from  the  name  and  the  neighbour 
hood  Christmas  wouldn't  excite  this  family 
much,  anyhow,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  care?"  said  her  chief  crisply. 
"There's  a  story  there — go  get  it!" 

Doubtlessly  the  Christmas  spirit  got  into 
Betty  Gwin's  typewriter  keys.  Certainly  it 
got  into  her  inkpot  and  deposited  the  real  es 
sence  of  the  real  sob  stuff  there.  The  story  she 
wrote  trickled  pathos  from  every  balanced  par 
agraph;  there  was  pity  in  the  periods  and  senti 
ment  in  the  semicolons.  As  for  the  exclama 
tion-points,  they  simply  were  elongated  tear 
drops.  It  was  one  of  the  best  stories  Betty 
Gwin  ever  wrote.  She  said  so  herself — openly. 
But  the  picture  that  went  with  the  story  was 
absolutely  diacfemic;  it  crowned  figures  of 
speech  with  tiaras  of  the  graphic  art.  It 
snowed  Mamma  Finkelstein  seated  on  an 
upended  box,  which  once  had  contained  pickled 
[258] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


herrings,  surrounded  by  the  eight  little  Finkel- 
steins.  The  children  looked  like  ragged 
cherubs. 

To  accomplish  this  result  it  had  been  neces 
sary  for  Miss  Gwin  to  depart  somewhat  from  a 
faithful  delineation  of  the  originals.  But  of 
what  value  is  the  creative  ability  unless  it  be 
used  to  create?  I  ask  you  that  and  pause  for  a 
reply.  Not  that  the  junior  Finkelsteins  were 
homely;  without  an  exception  they  were  hand 
some  and  well-formed.  A  millionaire  might 
have  been  proud  to  own  them. 

But  the  trouble  was,  the  Old  Masters,  who 
first  painted  cherubim,  were  mainly  Italians,  and 
for  a  variety  of  reasons  chose  their  models  from 
a  race  other  than  that  to  which  the  Finkelsteins 
appertained.  To  make  her  portraits  conform 
with  the  popular  conceptions  of  cherubs  Miss 
Gwin  saw  fit  to — shall  we  say? — conventional 
ise  certain  features.  Indeed,  when  it  came  to 
reproducing  for  publication  the  physical  aspect 
of  Master  Solly  Finkelstein  she  did  more  than 
conventionalise — she  idealised.  Otherwise  sub 
scribers,  giving  the  picture  a  cursory  inspection, 
might  have  been  led  to  believe  that  this  cherub's 
wings  had  sprouted  mighty  high  up  on  him. 
For  Solly,  eldest  man  child  of  the  Finkelstein 
brood,  had  inherited  the  paternal  ear — not  all 
of  it,  as  we  know,  but  an  ample  and  conspicu 
ous  sufficiency.  Yet,  with  his  ears  trimmed, 
he,  on  his  own  merits,  had  enough  of  sombre 
child  beauty  for  any  seven-year-older  any- 
[259] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


where.  So  Betty  Gwin  trimmed  them — with 
her  drawing  pencil. 

The  bright  light  of  publicity  having  been 
directed  upon  this  cheerfully  forlorn  family,  re 
sults  followed.  Of  the  publicity  its  beneficiaries 
knew  nothing.  Such  papers  as  Papa  Finkel- 
stein  read  were  Yiddish  papers;  he  was  no 
bookworm  at  that.  Of  the  results,  though,  they 
were  all  speedily  made  aware. 

Miss  Gwin  embodied  the  original  and  pioneer 
one  of  the  forces  speedily  set  marching  to  the 
relief  of  the  Finkelsteins.  Persons  of  a  phil 
anthropic  leaning,  reading  what  she  had  writ 
ten  and  beholding  what  she  had  drawn,  were 
straightway  moved  to  forward,  in  care  of  that 
young  author  and  the  publication  which  she 
served,  various  small  sums  of  money  to  be  con 
veyed  to  this  practically  fireless,  substantially 
foodless  and  semigarmentless  household.  Miss 
Gwin  thought,  at  first,  of  founding  a  regular 
subscription  list  under  the  title  of  Betty  Gwin's 
Succour  Fund;  but,  on  second  thought,  dis 
liked  the  sound  of  the  phrase  when  spoken, 
although  it  looked  well  enough  written  out. 

Instead,  she  elected  to  carry  in  person  to  their 
proper  destination  the  cash  contributions  already 
in  hand,  and  along  with  them  a  somewhat  more 
cumbersome  offering  consisting  of  a  one-piece 
costume  sent  by  a  young  lady  in  the  theatrical 
profession — the  chorus  profession,  to  be  circum 
stantial  about  it — who  had  accompanied  the 
donation  with  a  note  on  scented  violet  note 
[260] 


FIRST     CORINTHIANS 

paper,  with  a  crest,  stating  that  she  wished  the 
devoted  mother  of  those  "poor  birdlings" — a 
direct  quotation,  this,  from  Miss  Gwin's  story — 
to  have  the  frock,  and  to  keep  it  and  wear  it  for 
her  very  own.  With  the  Compliments  of  Miss 
Trixie  Adair,  of  the  Gay  Gamboliers  Musical 
Comedy  Company. 

Thus  laden,  Miss  Gwin  descended  upon  Pike 
Street  and  ascended  upon  the  Finkelsteins, 
bringing  with  her,  in  addition  to  the  other  things 
mentioned,  an  air  of  buoyancy  and  good  cheer. 
As  on  the  occasion  of  her  former  call,  two  days 
earlier,  the  medium  of  intercourse  between  the 
visitor  and  the  heads  of  the  household  was 
Miriam,  aged  nine,  the  topmost  round  of  the 
family  stepladder,  ably  reenforced  by  her 
brother  Solly,  who  was  mentioned  just  a  bit 
ago  with  particular  reference  to  his  ears.  In 
truth  I  should  put  it  the  other  way  round;  for, 
to  be  exact,  it  was  Solly  who  sustained  the  main 
burden  of  translation,  his  sister  being  a  shy 
little  thing  and  he  in  temperament  emphati 
cally  the  opposite. 

Besides,  his  opportunities  for  acquiring  fa 
cility  and  a  repertoire  in  tongues  had  been  more 
extensive  than  hers.  While  Miriam  frequented 
the  hallways  of  the  tenement,  or,  at  best,  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  it,  concerned  with  the 
minding  of  the  twins — Israel  and  Isadore,  but 
both  called,  for  convenience,  Izzy — it  was  his 
practice  to  range  far  and  wide,  risking  death 
beneath  trolley  cars,  capture  by  the  law,  and 
[261] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


murder  at  the  hands  of  roused  custodians  of 
jobbing  houses  and  buildings  in  course  of  con 
struction,  about  which  he  lurked  on  the  lookout 
for  empty  packing  cases  and  bits  of  planking, 
and  the  like — such  stuff  as  might  be  dragged 
home  and  there  converted  into  household  fur 
nishings  or  stove  fuel,  depending  upon  whether 
at  the  moment  the  establishment  stood  more 
desperately  in  need  of  something  to  sit  on  than 
of  something  to  burn. 

Even  now,  at  the  tender  age  of  seven,  going 
on  eight,  Solly  betrayed  the  stirrings  of  a  rest 
less  ambition  such  as  his  sire  had  never  known. 
It  was  an  open  question  whether  he  would  grow 
up  to  be  a  gunman  or  a  revered  captain  of 
finance.  A  tug  of  fate  might  set  his  eager  foot 
steps  toward  either  goal.  Already  he  had  a 
flowing  command  of  the  sort  of  English  spoken 
by  startled  and  indignant  motormen,  pestered 
policemen  and  watchmen,  tempted  by  prova- 
cation  entirely  beyond  their  powers  of  self- 
control.  So  Solly  served  as  chief  interpreter 
while  Miss  Gwin  informally  tendered  the  pres 
ents  that  had  been  intrusted  to  her  charge  for 
transmission. 

In  the  same  spirit  Papa  and  Mamma  Fink- 
elstein,  who  continued  to  entertain  the  vaguest 
of  theories  regarding  the  sources  of  and  the  rea 
sons  for  these  benefactions,  accepted  them 
gratefully,  with  no  desire  to  look  a  gift  horse 
in  the  mouth.  Gift  horses  were  strange  live- 

stock  in  their  experience,  anyhow. 

[262] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


The  money — eight  dollars  and  ninety-five 
cents,  all  told — went  for  fuel  and  food;  but 
mainly  for  food.  With  the  Finkelsteins,  life 
was  a  feast  or  else  it  was  a  famine;  in  their 
scheme  of  domestic  economics  they  sought  no 
middle  ground.  As  for  the  gown  bestowed  by 
Miss  Trixie  Adair,  of  the  Gay  Gamboliers, 
Mamma  Finkelstein  started  wearing  it  right 
away,  merely  adapting  it  to  existing  conditions 
— conditions  that  were,  with  her,  not  only  ex 
istent  but,  I  may  say,  chronic.  It  was — or  had 
been — a  pale-blue  evening  gown  of  a  satinlike 
material,  with  no  neck  and  no  sleeves  to  the 
upper  part,  but  with  a  gracefully  long  train  to 
the  skirt  part,  and  made  to  hook  up  the  back. 

Because  of  the  frequency  of  the  demands  put 
upon  the  maternal  resources  by  the  newest  and 
smallest  Finkelstein,  it  was  deemed  expedient 
and,  in  fact,  essential  to  turn  the  gown  round 
backward,  so  as  to  have  the  bodice  fastenings 
directly  in  front  of  Mamma  Finkelstein  instead 
of  directly  behind  her.  This  necessitated  draw 
ing  the  train  up  from  beneath  the  occupant's 
feet  and  draping  it,  sash-fashion,  about  her 
waist.  Mamma  Finkelstein  wore  it  so.  She 
was  wearing  it  so  that  afternoon  when  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass  arrived,  direct  from  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  also  the  next  morning  when 
Miss  Godiva  Sleybells  came,  representing,  semi 
officially  and  most  competently,  the  Cherry  Hill 
Neighbourhood  House. 

Since  of  these  two  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass 
[263] 


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was  first,  firstly  then  we  may  consider  her.  I 
will  begin  by  stating  that  she  was  a  lady  of 
augmented  wealth  and  indubitable  preemi 
nence,  being  of  that  elect  group  who  have 
ceased  merely  to  smell  society  from  afar  off 
and  now  taste  of  its  exclusive  delights  close  up. 
For  her  it  had  been  a  hard  climb,  laboriously 
uphill  all  the  way,  boulder-strewn  and  beset 
by  hazards,  pitfalls  and  obstacles.  But  she  had 
arrived  finally  upon  those  snow-capped  peaks 
where  the  temperature  is  ever  below  freezing 
and  life  may  only  be  maintained  artificially. 

Inasmuch  as  she  had  not  been  born  to 
breathe  the  atmosphere  of  this  rarefied  altitude, 
but  had  achieved  her  right  to  breathe  it  by  her 
own  efforts,  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  felt  it 
incumbent  on  her  to  maintain  her  position 
away  up  there  on  Mount  Saint  Elias  by  such 
manifold  and  varied  activities  as  were  most 
aptly  designed  to  make  for  publicity,  which 
meant  prominence,  which  meant  success.  For 
the  moment  she  was  principally  concerned  with 
living  up  to  the  role  of  good  angel  to  the 
worthily  indigent.  Those  who  loved  her  and 
in  return  wished  to  be  loved  by  her  called  her 
the  Lady  Bountiful  of  the  Slums. 

She  conferred  the  sweet  boon  of  charity  with 
the  aid  of  a  press  agent,  a  subscription  to  a 
clipping  bureau,  a  special  secretary — not  her 
regular  secretary,  but  a  special  one — and  a  new 
photograph — copyright  by  De  Valle,  Fifth 
Avenue,  all  infringements  prohibited — appear- 
[264] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


ing  about  once  in  so  often  in  the  Sunday  Maga 
zine  Sections. 

It  was  no  strain  upon  the  eyes  to  gaze  upon 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass;  nor  yet  upon  her 
photograph.  Nor  did  she  consciously  and  will 
fully  deny  any  properly  respectful  person  the 
opportunity.  A  distinguished  portrait  painter 
once  had  said,  shortly  after  completing  a  com 
mission  which  brought  him  large  pecuniary 
returns  from  Mr.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass,  that 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  possessed  the  most 
beautiful  profile  on  the  entire  North  American 
continent.  When  in  company  the  recipient  of 
this  tribute  kept  her  side  face  turned  to  the 
majority  present — the  greatest  possible  good 
to  the  greatest  possible  number,  you  see.  She 
had  one  secret  regret:  one  could  not  walk  side 
ways — or,  at  least,  one  could  not  for  any  con 
siderable  distance. 

I  would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass  actually  read  the  prose  poem 
emanating  from  Miss  Betty  Gwin's  sympa 
thetic  typewriter;  but  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  promptly  the  article  of  that  gifted  young 
word  chandler  was  brought  to  her  attention. 
No  time  was  to  be  lost;  in  fact,  no  time  was 
lost.  Very  shortly  thereafter  Mrs.  F.  Fodder- 
wood  Bass,  attired  in  housings  appropriately 
plain,  to  accord  with  her  errand — housings 
which  had  cost  less  than  five  hundred  dollars, 
exclusive  of  import  duties — and  suitably  riding 
in  a  simple  French  limousine  of  but  forty-eight 

[265] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

horse  power,  was  conveyed  southward  and 
eastward  from  her  home  to  Pike  Street.  Her 
arrival  there  created  a  measure  of  popular 
tumult  only  to  be  equalled  by  a  bank  run  or  a 
fire  alarm.  A  self-appointed  escort  at  least 
seventy-five  strong  piloted  her  up  four  flights 
to  the  Finkelstein  flat. 

Papa  Finkelstein  was  out  temporarily,  and 
Mamma  Finkelstein  was  stunned  into  a  state 
approximating  dumb  stupor  by  the  grandeur 
of  the  visitation  that  appeared  before  her,  her 
alded  though  its  coming  had  been  by  many 
small,  excited  couriers  dashing  up  the  stairs  in 
advance.  Though  Mamma  Finkelstein  was  of 
humble""station,  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  did 
not  deny  her  a  treat.  Throughout  her  stay, 
which  was  short,  she  remained  standing  in  the 
doorway,  with  her  profile  presented  to  the 
dazzled  stare  of  her  hostess. 

Her  purpose  being  explained  through  vol 
unteer  interpreters,  and  largess  having  been 
bestowed  generally,  she  masterfully  bore  away 
Miriam,  Solly  and  the  two  small  duplicate  Izzys, 
Mamma  Finkelstein  making  no  sign  either  of 
demur  to  or  acquiescence  in  the  plan,  to  a 
Christmas-tree  entertainment  given  under  her 
direct  patronage  in  a  rented  hall  some  distance 
north  of  Cooper  Union. 

At  eight  P.  M.,  long  before  their  mother  had 

in  any  visible  respect  rallied  from  her  coma  of 

dumb  bewilderment,  these  four,  a  torpid  and 

satiated  quartet,  were  safely  returned  to  the 

[  266  J 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


home  nest,  gorged  on  goodies,  and  laden  with 
small  gifts  for  themselves  and  for  their  yet 
more  juvenile  sisters  and  brothers.  Through 
out  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  though,  little 
Miriam  persisted  in  regarding  her  father  with  a 
certain  silent  and  distressful  reproach  in  her 
big  black  eyes.  Made  uneasy  by  his  daughter's 
bearing  he  questioned  her;  and  she  divulged 
something  she  had  heard. 

It  seemed  that  in  explaining  the  intent  of  the 
festival  of  Christmas,  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood 
Bass,  though  actuated  by  the  best  intentions 
imaginable,  had  nevertheless  revealed  certain 
phases  of  Sacred  History  which,  when  the  first 
shock  of  disclosure  was  over,  left  sensitive  little 
Miriam  in  a  state  of  mind  where  she  stood 
ready  to  fix  direct  responsibility  upon  her  own 
parent.  Papa  Finkelstein  may  have  been  lax 
in  the  precept  and  practice  of  his  theological 
beliefs,  but  assuredly  his  convictions  were  both 
sound  and  orthodox.  Immediately  he  de 
veloped  an  entirely  unwarranted  but  none  the 
less  sincere  distrust  for  the  motives  of  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass. 

Truly,  he  wronged  her  there.  There  was 
nothing  that  was  ulterior,  but  much  that  was 
superior  in  the  lady's  attitude  toward  the  lower 
forms  of  animal  life  which  she  observed  flour 
ishing  below  her.  By  lower  forms  of  animal 
life  I,  as  the  historian  of  this  episode,  would  in 
clude  everything  and  everybody  outside  of  her 
set.  These  lesser  manifestations  of  an  inscru- 
[267] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


table  scheme  of  creation  she  regarded  benig- 
nantly,  tolerantly  and  at  times — wonderingly. 
To  her  they  seemed  so — well,  so  different — if 
you  get  my  meaning  and  hers.  One  wondered 
sometimes,  really  one  did,  if  they  could  be  so 
susceptible  to  emotion  and  sensation  as  those 
who  had  been  called  to  service  in  a  higher 
sphere  of  activity?  The  answer  might  be  yes 
and  then  again  it  might  be  no.  It  all  depended 
upon  one's  point  of  view.  Indeed  when  one 
came  to  ponder  these  matters,  so  much  always 
did  depend  upon  one's  point  of  view,  did  it  not? 
Meanwhile  pending  the  ultimate  solution  of 
these  perplexing  sociological  problems,  she 
would  minister  Samaritanlike  to  the  wants  of 
the  needy,  and  not  forget  to  advertise  the 
Samaritan.  That  was  at  once  her  pleasure  and 
her  duty. 

If  Papa  Finkelstein's  suspicions  endured 
through  the  night,  as  I  have  my  reasons  for 
believing  they  did  endure,  they  found  no  per 
manent  lodgment  in  the  bosom  of  his  helpmate; 
for  the  next  morning  an  event  occurred  that  for 
the  time  being,  at  least,  served  to  dispossess 
Mamma  Finkelstein's  mind  of  all  lesser  con 
siderations.  I  refer  to  the  arrival  of  Miss 
Godiva  Sleybells,  from  the  Cherry  Hill  Neigh 
bourhood  House.  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass 
typified  amateur  philanthropy;  but  not  so  Miss 
Sleybells.  She  came,  panoplied  with  purpose 
ful  intent,  as  the  specialised,  the  expert,  the 
austere  representative  of  systematic  relief. 
[268] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


In  a  period  not  far  remote  the  allegation  had 
been  made  that,  so  often,  organised  charity 
was  lacking  in  the  personal  and  the  direct  touch. 
It  had  been  said  that  its  common  attitude  was 
this:  if  a  starving  man  applied  for  help  in  the 
guise  of  sustenance,  organised  charity  took  his 
name  and  address  and  made  a  very  painstaking 
investigation  of  the  merits  of  the  mendicant 
and  his  plea,  sparing  neither  time  nor  expense 
in  the  scope  of  its  inquiry.  His  case  being  es 
tablished  as  a  worthy  one,  organised  charity 
took  steps  to  seek  him  out  and  providing  he 
had  not  inconsiderately  died  in  the  interim,  or 
moved  to  another  park  bench,  it  bestowed  upon 
him  a  small  blue  ticket  entitling  the  holder  to 
saw  wood  so  many  hours  a  day  at  a  specially 
maintained  wood  yard,  and  to  receive  in  return 
for  such  labour  a  specified  number  of  frugal 
meals.  Mind  you  I  do  not  pretend  to  assume 
that  this  actually  was  the  fact;  I  merely  repeat 
a  form  of  criticism  current  at  one  time.  But 
now,  organised  charity  was  become  more  per 
sonal  and  possibly  a  trifle  less  statistical  in  its 
methods.  For  proof,  observe  how  promptly 
Miss  Godiva  Sleybells  moved.  She,  too,  read 
Miss  Betty  Gwin's  account  of  the  lorn  Finkel- 
steins.  She  waited  not  for  an  inquisition  to  be 
made  and  a  report  to  be  filed.  She  girded  up 
her  walking  skirt,  as  a  result  of  which  girding 
it  hiked  in  front  and  it  drooped  behind;  and 
she  put  on  her  heavy  rubbers  and  she  came. 

She  walked  in,  unannounced,  on  the  as- 
[269] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


sembled  Finkelsteins  and  the  instant  she  crossed 
the  threshold  all  there,  regardless  of  age,  some 
how  realised  that  they  were  hers  to  do  with  as 
she  pleased;  realised  that  in  her  efficient  hands 
they  would  be  but  as  plastic  clay  between  the 
fingers  of  the  moulder.  Everywhere  she  went 
Miss  Sleybells  conveyed  this  feeling.  It  trav 
elled  with  her  even  as  her  aura.  She  could 
walk  through  a  crowded  street,  pausing  not  and 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left  and  yet 
leave  behind  her,  in  the  minds  of  those  among 
whom  she  had  passed,  the  firm  conviction  that 
she  had  taken  this  particular  street  under  her 
direct  management  and  control.  Nay  more. 
She  could  traverse  a  stretch  of  empty  landscape 
and  even  after  she  was  gone,  inanimate  nature 
would  somehow  bear  the  impress  of  her  domi 
nance  as  though  thereafter  the  Original  Creator 
of  that  landscape  would  be  relieved  of  all  re 
sponsibility  in  connection  with  its  conduct, 
maintenance  and  development.  Were  there 
more  like  her  in  this  hemisphere,  woman  would 
not  now  be  asking  for  the  suffrage.  But  man 
would  be. 

A  variety  of  causes  had  actuated  her  in  going 
into  settlement  work.  One  half  the  world 
didn't  know  how  the  other  half  lived.  Miss 
Sleybells  meant  to  find  out.  Already  she  had 
written  a  considerable  number  of  magazine 
articles  embodying  the  fruits  of  her  observa 
tions  and  deductions  among  the  poor.  Eventu- 
ally,  from  the  rich  stores  of  her  knowledge  she 
[270] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


meant  to  draw  material  for  a  novel.  This  novel 
would  be  in  the  style  of  the  best  work  of  Gorky, 
only  stronger  and  more  vivid  than  Gorky,  and 
infinitely  rich  in  its  analytical  appraisals  of 
character.  One  who  knew  Miss  Sleybells  might 
not  doubt  of  this.  If  she  had  had  a  middle 
name,  her  middle  name  would  have  been 
Throughness. 

Such,  in  brief,  was  the  ardent  and  enthusiastic 
woman  who  invaded  the  Finkelstein  citadel, 
surprising  its  resident  garrison  in  the  middle  of 
their  comfortable  untidiness  and  causing  them 
instantly  and  unconditionally  to  capitulate  be 
fore  her  onslaught.  She  looked  about  her, 
choosing  for  her  initial  attack  the  point  of  least 
resistance.  It  was  the  second  to  the  youngest 
Finkelstein,  Lena  by  name,  engaged  at  the 
moment  in  regaling  her  infantile  palate  with  a 
mid-forenoon  snack  consisting  of  a  large,  sea- 
green  dill  pickle  and  a  rather  speckly  overripe 
banana.  By  Mrs.  Finkelstein's  standards  these 
two  articles  constituted  a  well-balanced  food 
ration.  If  the  banana  was  soft  and  spotty,  the 
pickle  certainly  was  firm  and  in  the  immature 
hands  of  Lena  practically  indestructible.  Be 
sides,  the  results  spoke  for  themselves.  Lena 
liked  her  dill  pickle  and  her  banana;  and  she 
thrived  on  them. 

Miss  Sleybells  looked  and  said:  "Tut!  Tut!" 

And  with  these  words  she  deprived  the  startled 

and  indignant  child  of  both  those   treasures. 

That,  however,  was  merely  the  beginning.     She 

[271] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

fell  to  then  in  earnest — most  expeditiously  and 
painstakingly  fell  to.  From  a  neighbouring 
lady,  more  addicted  to  the  healthful  exercise  of 
sweeping  than  Mamma  Finkelstein  was,  she 
commandeered  the  use  of  a  broom;  also  a  mop. 
She  heated  water  to  the  boiling  point  upon  the 
rickety  stove.  She  gave  little  Miriam  a  quarter 
and  sent  the  child  forth  to  buy  two  kinds  of 
soap — human  and  laundry.  Following  this 
things  ensued  with  a  dizzying  celerity. 

At  the  outset,  Miss  Sleybells  completely  up 
set  Mamma  Finkelstein's  domestic  arrange 
ments;  or,  rather,  she  disturbed  and  disar 
ranged  them,  for  to  have  them  upset  was 
Mamma  Finkelstein's  notion  of  having  them 
properly  bestowed.  She  ferreted  out  from  be 
neath  beds  the  stored  accumulations  of  months. 
She  pried  open  the  windows,  admitting  the  chill 
air  of  winter  in  swift  gusts.  She  swept,  she 
dusted,  and  with  suds  she  mopped  the  floor 
and  stayed  not  her  hand.  She  herded  the 
abashed  Finkelsteins  into  a  corner,  only  to 
drive  them  out  again  before  the  strokes  of 
broom  and  mop  and  dust  rag,  all  the  while  tut- 
tutting  like  a  high-powered  dynamo. 

This  done,  she  took  individual  after  indi 
vidual  in  hand  for  cutaneal  renovation.  While 
Mamma  Finkelstein  hovered  timorously  by, 
stricken  with  a  great  and  voiceless  apprehen 
sion,  Miss  Sleybells  took  scissors  and  snipped 
the  children  out  of  their  flannel  swaddlings  into 
which  they  had  so  carefully  been  sewn  but  a 
[272] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


short  six  weeks  before.  As  fast  as  she  denuded 
a  submissive  form  she  bathed  it  soapily,  set  it 
before  the  fire  to  dry  out,  and  seized,  with  moist, 
firm  grasp,  upon  another  unresisting  victim.  I 
indulge  in  no  cheap  effort  at  punning  but  speak 
the  sober  fact  when  I  say  Miss  Godiva  Sley- 
bells  that  day  proved  herself  a  veritable  Little 
Sister  of  the  Pore. 

Presently  from  the  group  of  small  naked  fig 
ures  squatted  by  the  stove  a  sound  of  sneezing 
arose.  The  baby  began  it  and  the  baby's  ex 
ample  was  contagious.  Soon  these  youthful 
Finkelsteins  who  had  undergone  the  water 
ordeal,  as  contradistinguished  from  those  who 
had  not  yet  undergone  it,  were  going  off  with 
sneezes  at  regular  half-minute  intervals,  like 
so  many  little  pink  cuckoo  clocks. 

Behind  Miss  Sleybells'  indomitable  back, 
then,  Mamma  Finkelstein  wrung  her  hands  in 
mute  and  helpless  distress.  But  no  word  of 
protest  did  she  utter.  For  one  thing,  her 
knowledge  of  the  English  language  practically 
was  negligible.  For  another  thing,  she  dared 
not  speak  even  had  she  had  the  words.  To 
Mamma  Finkelstein,  Miss  Sleybells  personi 
fied  the  visible  authority  of  the  state — that 
same  dread  force  which,  in  the  guise  of  truant 
officers,  sought  to  drag  Miriam  away  to  public 
school  when  her  services  were  required  for  nurs 
ing  duties;  and  which,  again,  wearing  brass 
and  blue,  harried  Solly  from  his  wood-collecting 

enterprises. 

[273] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Starting  with  the  youngest  and  progressing 
toward  the  top,  Miss  Sleybells  bathed  up  the 
line  as  far  as  the  twins  before  she  stopped. 
She  stopped  there  for  lack  of  living  material. 

Solly,  opportunely,  had  fled  into  hiding,  and 
with  him  Miriam,  his  sister.  Anyhow,  Miss 
Sleybells  reflected,  as  she  looked  about  her  at 
the  surroundings,  now  all  cleansed  and  damp 
ish,  all  lathered  and  purged,  that  she  had  done 
a  great  deal  for  one  day — a  very  great  deal. 
Still,  much  remained  undone. 

Upon  leaving,  she  gave  Mamma  Finkelstein 
express  and  explicit  commands  regarding  the 
conduct  of  her  home,  speaking  with  especial 
reference  to  fresh  air,  ablutions  and  diet.  By 
nods  and  by  gestures  Mamma  Finkelstein 
pledged  obedience,  without  sensing  in  the  small 
est  degree  what  she  was  promising  to  do.  Then 
Miss  Sleybells  announced  that  she  would  return 
on  the  morrow,  and  departed.  Mamma  Fink 
elstein  understood  that  part,  at  least,  and  her 
wigged  head  sank  in  her  hands.  Papa  Finkel 
stein,  arriving  home  shortly  before  dark,  sus 
tained  a  hard  shock.  For  a  minute  he  almost 
thought  he  must  have  got  into  the  wrong  flat. 

Miss  Godiva  Sleybells  was  as  good  as  her 
word;  in  fact,  better.  She  did  come  back  the 
next  day  and  on  many  days  thereafter,  coming 
to  correct,  to  admonish,  to  renovate,  to  set 
erring  feet  upon  the  properest  way,  to  scold 
poor  Mamma  Finkelstein  for  her  constantly 
recurrent  backslidings  from  the  paths  of  do- 
[274] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


mestic  duty.  Nearly  always  she  came  at  un 
expected  intervals;  and,  having  come,  she 
entered  always  without  knocking.  Mamma 
Finkelstein  fell  into  the  habit  of  hearkening 
fearsomely  for  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall 
without. 

Being  warned  by  an  approaching  resolute 
tread,  betokening  flat,  low  heels  and  broad, 
sensible  soles,  she  would  drop  whichever  child 
she  happened  to  be  mothering  at  that  moment 
and  fly  about  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  purposeless 
activity,  snatching  up  things,  casting  them 
aside,  rattling  kitchen  pans,  shoving  loose 
articles — and  nearly  everything  she  owned  was 
loose — out  of  sight.  The  artifice  was  a  trans 
parent  one  at  best.  Assuredly  it  never  de 
ceived  Miss  Godiva  Sleybells.  With  shiftless- 
ness  she  had  no  patience.  Shiftlessness  was  one 
of  several  thousand  things  with  which  she  had 
no  patience. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  her  second  visit  that 
Miss  Sleybells  brought  along  and  bestowed 
upon  Mamma  Finkelstein  a  bound  volume 
dealing  with  the  proper  care  of  infants,  and 
bade  her  consult  its  pages.  This  gift  Mamma 
Finkelstein  put  to  usage,  but  not  the  usage  the 
donor  had  devised  for  it.  She  gave  it  to  the 
next-to-the-youngest  baby,  who  was  teething, 
to  cut  her  little  milk  teeth  upon.  The  sharp 
corners  proved  soothing  to  the  feverish  gums 
of  Lena;  but,  under  constant  and  well-irrigated 
mumblings,  the  red  dye  on  the  covers  came  off, 
[275] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


resulting  in  an  ensanguined  appearance  of 
Lena's  lips  and  a  sharp  attack  of  colic  elsewhere 
in  Lena.  Mamma  Finkelstein  had  suspected 
evil  lurked  within  the  volume;  now  she  was 
certain  dangers  abode  in  its  outer  casings.  She 
kindled  a  fire  with  it. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  her  third  visit  that 
Miss  Sleybells  brought  with  her  two  co-la 
bourers  who  listened  intently  and  took  notes 
while  their  guide  discoursed  upon  the  subject 
of  the  Finkelstein  family's  domestic  and 
hygienic  shortcomings,  she  speaking  with  the 
utmost  candour  and  just  as  frankly  as  though 
her  living  topics  had  not  been  present  at  the 
time. 

It  was  following  the  occasion  of  her  fourth 
visit  that  Miss  Godiva  prepared  and  read  to  a 
company  of  her  associates  in  the  Neighbourhood 
House  a  paper  dealing  with  her  observations  in 
this  particular  quarter.  In  the  course  of  her 
reading  she  referred  variously  to  the  collective 
Finkelsteins  as  a  charge,  a  problem,  a  question, 
an  enigma  and  a  noteworthy  case. 

For  all  her  lack  of  acquaintanceship  with  the 
language,  it  is  possible  that  Mamma  Finkel 
stein,  in  her  dim,  inarticulate  way,  compre 
hended  something  of  Miss  Godiva's  attitude 
toward  her.  Perhaps  she  would  have  preferred 
to  be  regarded  not  as  a  problem  but  occasionally 
as  a  person.  Perhaps  she  craved  inwardly  for 
those  vanished  days  of  comparative  privacy  and 
unlimited  disorderliness  within  the  two  rooms 
[276] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


she  called  her  home.  Her  situation  may  have 
been  miserable  then.  Miss  Sleybells  said  so. 
But  what  matters  misery  if  its  victims  mistake 
it  for  happiness? 

But  since  Mrs.  Finkelstein  never  by  act  or 
sign  or  look  betrayed  her  feelings,  whatsoever 
they  may  have  been,  it  is  not  for  me  or  for  you 
to  assume  that  she  harboured  resentment. 
She  was  a  daughter  of  a  tribe  bitted  and  bridled 
to  silent  endurance;  of  a  people  girthed  and 
saddled  through  the  centuries  to  the  uncom 
plaining  bearing  of  their  burdens. 

Meantime  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  was  by 
no  means  slack  in  well-doing.  As  regards  the 
younger  Finkelsteins  particularly,  her  alms- 
deeds  were  many.  She  took  them  under  her 
silken  wings.  At  intervals  she  arrived,  rustling, 
to  confer  advice  and  other  things  more  material 
and  therefore  more  welcome.  She  spoke  of  the 
Finkelsteins  as  her  Pet  Charities. 

Among  the  younger  inmates  of  the  flat  her 
visits  were  by  no  means  distasteful.  Quite 
aside  from  the  gifts  she  brought,  the  richness  of 
the  clothes  she  wore  appealed  to  a  heritage  of 
their  ancestry  that  was  in  them;  they  had  a 
natural  taste  and  appreciation  for  fabrics.  But 
Papa  Finkelstein  found  it  impossible  to  cure 
himself  of  his  earlier  suspicions.  He  remem 
bered  what  he  remembered,  and  remained 
dubious. 

For  all  that,  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  pres- 
ently  aimed  her  batteries  of  benevolence  upon 
[277] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


him.  It  was  like  this :  She  had  aided  conspicu 
ously  in  a  Bundle  Day  movement.  Someone 
else,  I  believe,  originated  the  idea,  but  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass  practically  took  it  over  as 
soon  as  she  heard  about  it.  Through  the  daily 
press  an  appeal  was  made  to  the  well-to-do  of 
the  community  that  they  should  assemble  into 
parcels  their  cast-off  garments  for  distribution 
among  the  poor.  The  police  force,  the  fire  de 
partment,  the  express  companies  and  the  news 
papers — all  were  to  cooperate  in  gathering  up 
such  parcels  and  depositing  them  at  a  desig 
nated  central  station,  where  the  objects  of  this 
bounty  on  a  given  date  might  be  outfitted. 

The  notion  caught  the  fancy  and  became 
popular.  It  assumed  a  scope  beyond  the  dream 
horizon  of  its  creator  and  of  the  legatees  of  the 
notion;  for  in  itself  it  had  four  elements  that 
inevitably  appeal  to  the  New  York  heart:  first, 
generosity,  for  New  York  may  be  thoughtless, 
but  it  is  vastly  generous  underneath  its  face- 
paint;  second,  novelty;  third,  size;  and  fourth, 
notoriety.  But  the  greatest  of  these  is  no 
toriety. 

The  effects  were  magnificently  far-reaching. 
Thousands  made  contributions;  thousands  of 
others  profited  thereby.  Many  a  poor  Bowery 
"dinner  waiter,"  owning  merely  a  greasy  short 
jacket  and  one  paper-bosomed  shirt,  and  com 
pelled  therefore  to  serve  in  some  quick  order 
place  for  his  food  and  nothing  else,  secured, 
without  cost,  the  dress  suit  of  his  visions  and 
[278] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


was  in  consequence  enabled  to  get  a  regular 
job,  in  a  regular  restaurant,  with  regular  pay 
and  regular  tips.  Many  a  shivering  derelict 
got  a  warm  if  threadbare  overcoat  to  cover  him. 
Many  a  half -clad  child  repaired  to  a  big  build 
ing  and  there  selected  whole  garments  suitable 
to  his  or  her  size,  if  not  to  his  or  her  station. 
And  meanwhile  the  sponsors  of  the  affair,  in 
cluding  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  and  lesser 
patronesses,  looked  on  approvingly,  acquiring 
merit  by  the  minute  and,  incidentally,  long 
reading  notices  in  all  the  papers. 

On  the  day  before  Bundle  Day  the  lady 
called  in  Pike  Street,  timing  her  arrival  so  as 
to  be  sure  of  finding  Papa  Finkelstein  in.  With 
the  aid  of  Miriam  and  Solly  she  explained  to 
him  her  designs.  He  was  to  come  to  such  and 
such  an  address  next  morning  and  be  equipped 
with  a  wardrobe  less  accessibly  ventilated  to 
the  eager  and  the  nipping  air  of  winter  than 
the  one  he  now  possessed. 

Papa  Finkelstein  solemnly  pledged  himself 
to  be  there  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  so  she 
went  away,  well-content.  Therein,  however, 
a  subtle  Oriental  strain  of  duplicity  in  Papa 
Finkelstein's  nature  found  play.  He  had  no 
intention  of  having  his  timid  sensibilities  mas 
sacred  before  a  large  crowd  to  make  a  Bundle 
Holiday.  It  may  have  been  that  he  feared  in 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass'  friendly  overtures 
there  was  concealed  a  covert  campaign  to  pros- 
elyte  him  away  from  the  faith  of  the  Fathers. 
[279] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


It  may  have  been  that,  through  professional 
reasons,  he  privily  deplored  a  movement  cal 
culated  to  strike  so  deadly  a  blow  at  the  very 
vitals  of  the  old-clo'  business.  At  any  rate  he 
did  not  go  where  she  had  bade  him  go;  com 
pletely  he  absented  himself  therefrom. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following 
day  before  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  realised 
that  Papa  Finkelstein  had  not  yet  appeared. 
She  called  to  her  a  footman  of  her  employ, 
specially  detailed  to  attend  her  on  this  occasion, 
and  ordered  him  to  proceed  at  once  to  Pike 
Street  and  find  her  missing  ward  and  bring 
him  before  her.  Being  a  good  footman,  his 
expression  gave  no  clue  to  his  feelings.  ^He 
deemed  it  to  lie  far  outside  the  proper  functions 
of  a  footman  to  be  hunting  up  persons  named 
Finkelstein;  but  he  obeyed. 

For  the  moment  the  scene  must  shift  to  Pike 
Street.  The  time  is  half  an  hour  later.  Partly 
by  words,  partly  by  wide-armed  gesticulations, 
Papa  Finkelstein  explained  his  position  in  the 
matter,  if  not  his  private  reasons. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  the  footman,  whose  name 
was  Cassidy — Maurice  J.  Cassidy.  He  fixed  a 
strong  hand  grippingly  in  the  back  of  Papa 
Finkelstein's  collar.  "Well,  you  listen  to  me, 
young  fella!  Wan  way  or  another  you're 
goin' — wit*  me,  nice  and  peaceable  or  in  an 
amby lance.  You  can  make  your  own  choice." 

The  words  possibly  were  confusing  to  the 
alien  understanding,  but  the  large  knobby  fist, 
[  280  J 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


which  swayed  to  and  fro  an  inch  or  so  below 
the  tip  of  the  captive's  nose,  spoke  in  a  lan 
guage  that  is  understood  of  all  men.  Papa 
Finkelstein  saw  his  way  clear  to  accompanying 
Footman  Cassidy.  Aboard  the  street  car,  on 
the  way  uptown,  several  of  his  fellow  passengers 
decided  he  must  be  a  thief  who  had  been  caught 
red-handed,  and  said  it  served  him  right. 

Arriving,  he  was  ushered — perhaps  I  should 
say  propelled — into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass.  She  greeted  his  appearance 
coosomely.  Or  is  cooingly  the  right  word? 
At  any  rate,  she  cooed  her  approval;  she  cooed 
beautifully,  anyhow.  With  open  pride  she  di 
rected  the  attention  of  certain  of  her  associate 
patronesses  to  the  little  huddled  shape  of  Cas 
sidy 's  prisoner. 

"Ah,  there  he  is!"  she  said.  "My  Pet 
Charity!  So  improvident,  so  shiftless;  but 
isn't  he  just  too  picturesque!" 

Levelling  their  lorgnettes  on  him,  her 
friends  agreed  in  chorus  that  he  was  very 
picturesque.  They  wondered,  though,  why  he 
wriggled  so. 

"The  dearest,  gentlest  little  man!"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  in  clear,  sweet 
tones.  "So  diffident,  but  so  grateful  for  every 
thing — the  poor,  tattered  dear!  He  never  says 
a  word  to  me  when  I  talk  to  him;  but  by  the 
look  in  his  eyes  I  can  tell  he  is  fairly  worshipping 
the  ground  I  walk  on." 

As  if  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  she  said 
[281] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


Papa  Finkelstein's  gaze  even  now  was  directed 
upon  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

"Now,  Cassidy,"  went  on  his  mistress,  "you 
take  him  into  one  of  the  dressing  rooms  yonder 
and  have  him  undress.  It's  too  bad  nearly 
everything  has  been  picked  over;  but  we  shall 
find  something  for  him,  I'm  sure." 

Within  a  curtained  recess  Cassidy  explained 
his  meaning  with  threatening  mien. 

"Take  off  thim  rags!"  he  commanded. 

Rags  they  may  have  been,  but  Papa  Finkel- 
stein  cherished  them.  Reluctantly  he  parted 
with  them,  filled  with  the  melancholy  convic 
tion  that  he  should  see  them  never  more.  It 
was  a  true  foreboding.  But  that  was  not  the 
worst  of  it.  Papa  Finkelstein  was  in  figure 
slight  and  of  a  contour  difficult  to  drape  gar 
ments  upon.  Moreover,  it  was  as  his  bene 
factor  had  said — everything  had  been  picked 
over  so.  Nevertheless,  a  selection  agreeable  to 
the  lady's  ideals  was  finally  made. 

Fifteen  minutes  passed.  At  the  end  of  those 
fifteen  minutes  Papa  Finkelstein,  under  the 
menacing  urgings  of  Footman  Cassidy,  made  a 
diffident  but  spectacular  reappearance  before 
the  Bundle  Day  audience.  His  head  was  bent 
apologetically  low,  so  that  his  whiskers,  spray 
ing  upon  his  bosom,  helped  to  cover  him.  His 
two  hands  were  spread  flat  upon  his  chest, 
hiding  still  more  of  his  abashed  shape.  Never 
theless,  it  might  be  discerned  that  Papa  Finkel 
stein  wore  the  abandoned  cream-coloured  whip- 
[282] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 

cords  of  somebody's  chauffeur — very  abandoned 
and  very  cream-coloured,  the  whole  constituting 
a  livery,  complete,  from  the  visored  cap  upon 
his  head  to  the  leather  puttees  reefed  about  his 
bowed  shanks. 

"Now  just  look  at  him!"  cried  Mrs.  F.  Fod- 
derwood  Bass  in  an  ecstasy.  "How  neat! 
How  trim!  How  cosy!" 

Papa  Finkelstein  didn't  want  to  be  neat.  He 
abhorred  cosiness;  likewise  trimness.  More 
over  he  shrunk  mentally  from  the  prospect  of 
his  homeward  journey,  foreseeing  difficulties. 
There  again  was  his  intuition  prophetically 
justified. 

At  the  corner  of  Hester  Street  and  the  Bowery 
a  skylarking  group  beheld  him  and  greeted  him 
with  cries  of  an  almost  incredulous  joy.  By 
force  they  detained  the  little  man,  making 
mock  of  him  in  English  and  in  Yiddish.  The 
English  passed  over  his  head,  but  into  his  soul 
the  Yiddish  bit  deep,  leaving  scars.  He  wrested 
himself  free  and  fled  to  his  home.  His  arrival 
there  made  a  profound  impression  on  Mamma 
Finkelstein — after  she  recognised  him.  So  did 
his  language. 

Only  the  absolute  necessity  of  gleaning  rent 
money  from  the  realms  of  trade  drove  him  forth 
two  days  later  from  the  comparative  sanctuary 
of  the  inner  room  of  his  domicile.  In  the  spirit 
he  suffered,  and  in  the  flesh  as  well.  Citizens 
en  route  to  the  Subway,  on  being  hailed  with 
inquiries  touching  on  old  clothes,  from  an  un- 
[  283  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

dersized  pedestrian  attired  as  -a  chauffeur,  in 
reduced  circumstances,  who  had  neglected  to 
shave  for  a  long  time  past,  did  not  halt  to  listen. 
They  halted  to  laugh  and  to  gibe  and  to  gird 
with  derision.  Until  Papa  Finkelstein  had 
effected  a  trade  with  a  compassionate  but 
thrifty  compatriot,  with  an  utter  disregard  for 
intrinsic  values  exchanging  what  he  wore  for 
whatsoever  the  other  might  give,  just  so  it 
sufficiently  covered  him,  he  felt  himself  to  be 
a  hissing  and  a  byword  in  the  highways — 
which  he  was. 

And  now  into  the  tangling  skeins  of  the  Fink 
elstein  family's  life  in  their  relation  to  the 
charitable  impulses  enlisted  upon  their  behalf 
— but  without  their  consent  or  their  approval — 
it  is  fitting  to  reintroduce  Miss  Betty  Gwin. 
Springtime  came  and  passed,  its  passage  dap 
pled  for  all  the  Finkelsteins  with  memory  spots 
attesting  the  more  or  less  intermittent  atten 
tions  of  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass,  and  the  more 
or  less  constant  ministrations  of  Miss  Godiva 
Sleybells. 

Summer  came;  and  with  the  initial  weeks  of 
summer  came  also  the  time  for  the  first  of  the 
series  of  annual  outings  conducted  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Evening  Dispatch's  Fresh  Air 
Fund  for  the  Children  of  the  Poor.  Yearly  it 
was  the  habit  of  this  enterprising  sheet  to  give 
excursions  to  the  beach,  employing  therefor  a 
chartered  steamboat  and  the  contributions  of 

the  public. 

[284  ] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 

The  public  mainly  put  up  the  money;  the 
owner  of  the  Evening  Dispatch,  Mr.  Jason  Q. 
Welldover,  principally  took  the  credit,  for 
thereby,  on  flaunting  banners  and  by  word  of 
speech,  was  his  name  and  his  fame  made  glori 
ous  throughout  the  land.  As  repeatedly 
pointed  out  in  the  editorial  columns  of  his 
journal,  the  LITTLE  ONES  of  the  slums  were 
enabled,  through  the  GENEROSITY  OF  THIS 
PAPER,  to  breathe  in  the  LIFE-GIVING  OZONE 
of  kindly  MOTHER  OCEAN;  to  PLAY  upon  the 
sands;  to  DISPORT  themselves  in  the  very  LAP 
OF  NATURE;  returning  home  at  eventide  RE 
JUVENATED  and  HAPPY — the  phraseology  and 
the  capitalisation  alike  being  direct  quotations 
from  the  Evening  Dispatch. 

Since  Miss  Betty  Gwin  was  on  the  staff  of 
the  Evening  Dispatch,  it  was  quite  natural  that 
she  should  take  a  personal  pride  as  well  as  a  pro 
fessional  interest  in  the  success  of  the  opening 
outing  of  the  season.  As  suitable  candidates 
for  admission  to  its  dragooned  passenger  list  she 
thought  of  Miriam  Finkelstein  and  Solly  Finkel- 
stein.  She  pledged  herself  to  see  that  these  two 
were  included  in  the  party.  Nor  did  she  forget 
it.  Upon  the  morning  of  the  appointed  date 
she  went  personally  to  Pike  Street,  assumed 
custodianship  of  the  favoured  pair  and,  her  own 
self,  escorted  them  to  the  designated  place  of 
assemblage  and  transferred  them  into  the  keep 
ing  of  Mr.  Moe  Blotch. 

Mr.   Blotch   belonged   in   the   Evening  Dis- 

[  285  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


patch's  Circulation  Department.  Against  his 
will  he  had  been  drafted  for  service  in  connec 
tion  with  the  Fresh  Air  Fund's  excursion.  He 
was  a  rounded,  heavy-set  person,  with  the 
makings  of  a  misanthrope  in  him.  That  day 
completed  the  job;  after  that  he  was  a  made 
and  finished  misanthrope. 

While  murder  blazed  in  his  eyes  and  kind 
words  poured  with  malevolent  bitterness  from 
his  lips,  Mr.  Blotch  marshalled  his  small  charges, 
to  the  number  of  several  hundred,  in  a  double 
file.  To  each  he  gave  a  small  American  flag, 
warning  each,  on  peril  of  mutilation  and  death, 
to  wave  that  flag  and  keep  on  waving  it  until 
further  orders.  Up  at  the  head  of  the  column, 
Prof.  Washington  Carter's  All-Coloured  Silver 
Cornet  Band  struck  up  a  clamorous  march 
tune  and  the  procession  started,  winding  its 
way  out  of  the  familiar  Lower  East  Side,  across 
the  tip  of  Manhattan  Island,  to  the  verge  of  the 
strange  Lower  West  Side. 

Well  up  in  the  line,  side  by  side,  marched 
Miriam  and  Solly,  the  twain  whose  fortunes  we 
are  following.  Possibly  from  stress  of  joyous 
anticipation  they  shivered  constantly.  How 
ever,  it  was  a  damp  and  cloudy  day,  and,  for 
early  June,  very  raw.  Even  Mr.  Moe  Blotch, 
muffled  as  he  was  in  a  light  overcoat,  shivered. 

The  route  of  march  led  past  the  downtown 

offices  of  the   Evening  Dispatch,   where,   in   a 

front  window,   the  proprietor,   Mr.   Jason   Q. 

Welldover,  waited  to  review  the  parade.     Ac- 

[286] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


cording  to  his  instructions  from  a  higher  au 
thority,  Mr.  Blotch  now  gave  the  signal  for  an 
outburst  of  appreciative  cheering  from  the  small 
marchers.  Obeying  the  command,  they  lifted 
up  their  voices;  but,  doubtlessly  through  stage 
fright  or  lack  of  chorus  drilling,  the  demonstra 
tion,  considered  for  vocal  volume,  was  not  alto 
gether  a  success.  It  was  plaintive  rather  than 
enthusiastic.  It  resembled  the  pipings  of  de 
spondent  sandpipers  upon  a  distant  lea.  Stand 
ing  in  the  window,  Mr.  Welldover  acknowledged 
the  tribute  by  bowing,  he  then  holding  the  pose 
until  his  staff  photographers  had  caught  him — 
once,  twice,  three  times. 

Half  a  mile  more  of  trudging  brought  the 
little  travellers  to  a  dock  above  the  Battery. 
Alongside  the  dock  lay  a  steamboat  so  swathed 
in  bunting  and  bannered  inscriptions  as  to  pre 
sent  the  appearance  of  being  surgically  ban 
daged  following  a  succession  of  major  operations. 
The  smokestack  suggested  a  newly  broken  leg, 
enveloped  in  first-aid  wrappings.  The  walking 
beam  rose  above  a  red-and-white-and-blue  mass, 
like  a  sprained  wrist  escaping  from  its  sling. 
The  boiler  deck  was  trussed  from  end  to  end; 
and  everywhere  recurred,  in  strikingly  large 
letters,  the  names  of  Mr.  Jason  Q.  Welldover 
and  the  Evening  Dispatch. 

Without  loss  of  time,  Mr.  Blotch  drove  his 

excursionists   aboard;    an<f  soon   then,   to  the 

strains  of  martial  music,  the  swaddled  craft  was 

moving  gayly  down  the  river.     Or,  anyhow,  she 

[287] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


moved  as  gayly  as  was  possible,  seeing  that  the 
river  was  of  a  rumpled,  grayish  aspect,  abound 
ing  in  large  waves,  and  each  wave  flounced  with 
a  ruffle  of  dirty-white  foam;  and  seeing,  fur 
ther,  that  an  exceedingly  keen  wind  blew  dead 
against  her,  searching  out  the  remotest  and 
most  sheltered  recesses  of  her  decks.  Mr. 
Blotch  remained  in  the  engine  room  throughout 
the  journey. 

But  all  pleasant  things  must  have  an  end; 
and  eventually,  although  to  some  aboard  it 
seemed  even  longer  than  that,  the  steamer 
reached  Coney.  Somewhere  on  this  globe  there 
may  be  a  more  dispiriting,  more  dismal  spot 
than  Coney  is  on  a  wet  and  cloudy  day  in  the 
early  part  of  June.  I  have  heard  Antarctic 
explorers  speak  with  feeling  of  the  sense  of  des 
olation  inspired  by  contemplation  of  the  scenery 
closely  adjacent  to  the  South  Pole;  but,  never 
having  been  at  or  near  the  South  Pole,  I  am  still 
pledged  to  Coney  Island. 

A  hot  dog  merchant  there,  hearing  the  strains 
of  music  and  beholding  the  approach  of  a  mul 
titude,  lit  his  fires  and  laid  specimens  of  his 
wares  upon  the  grid  to  brown  and  sizzle.  A 
closer  view  of  the  massed  crowd,  advancing 
toward  him  from  the  pier,  disillusioned  him. 
As  a  regular  subscriber  to  the  Evening  Dispatch 
he  knew  that  these  oncoming  hosts  were  not  to 
be  considered,  even  remotely,  as  prospective 
patrons.  For  had  it  not  been  written  and  re- 
peatedly  written  that  they  were  to  be  regaled, 
[288] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


ABSOLUTELY    WITHOUT    EXPENSE,   at 

Stanchheimer's  Chowder  Pavilion?  Verily  it 
had  been  so  written.  Uttering  fluent  maledic 
tions  in  his  sonorous  native  Greek,  the  hot  dog 
man  went  inside  his  booth,  pulled  down  the 
shades  and  turned  off  the  gas. 

On  a  wide  and  windswept  shore,  where  pallid 
sands  ran  down  to  pallid  sea,  and  sea  in  turn 
ran  out  and  out  to  mingle,  under  shrouding  fog 
banks,  with  lowering  skies,  the  small  Fresh-Air 
f  unders  were  turned  loose  and  sternly  ordered  to 
enjoy  themselves.  Perversely,  they  persisted 
in  huddling  in  close,  tight  clusters,  as  though 
drawn  together  by  a  gravitation  of  common  dis 
comfort.  Their  conductor  was  not  to  be 
thwarted.  He  had  a  duty  to  perform — a  duty 
to  them  and  to  his  employer — and  scrupulously 
he  meant  to  obey  it  if  it  cost  forty  lives.  From 
group  to  group  Mr.  Moe  Blotch  ran,  yanking  its 
members  out  into  the  cheerless  open. 

"Play,  consarn  you!  Play!"  he  blared  at 
them.  "Laugh  and  sing  and  dig  in  the  sands! 
Breathe  in  the  life-giving  ozone  or  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  your  bodies!" 

Little  Miriam  found  herself  alone  and  lone 
some  in  the  shadow  of  a  depressingly  pale-yel 
low  dune.  She  thought  of  the  warm  and  com 
fortable  tenement  hallway,  crowded  as  it  would 
be  with  gossiping  little  deputy  mothers  and 
crawling,  babbling  babies.  She  thought  of  the 
shifting  panorama  of  Pike  Street's  sidewalk  life, 
spectacular  and  thrilling.  She  thought  of  her 
[289] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


own  two  special  charges — Izzy  and  Izzy — de 
prived  now  of  their  customary  guardianship 
and  no  doubt  pining  for  it. 

These  poignant  memories  overcame  her.  She 
lifted  her  face  to  the  unresponsive  vault  of 
heaven,  and  she  wept.  Once  she  was  at  it, 
there  was  no  false  restraint  in  her  weeping;  she 
bemoaned  her  lot  shrilly,  copiously  and 
damply.  Moisture  streamed  from  her  eyes, 
her  mouth,  her  nose.  In  her  rendition  there 
was  a  certain  aquatic  wholeheartedness  that 
would  have  interested  and  startled  a  student  of 
natural  hydraulics.  Practically  this  child  had 
riparian  rights. 

To  her  side  came  running  Solly,  her  brother, 
likewise  weeping.  His  antlerlike  ears,  unde 
fended  and,  as  it  were,  defiantly  outbranching 
to  the  edged  breezes,  were  now  two  chilled 
disks,  shot  through  their  more  membranous 
surfaces  with  bluish,  pinkish,  greenish  tones, 
like  mother-of-pearl.  His  nose,  from  tip  to 
base,  was  one  frigid  and  painful  curve.  And, 
to  top  all,  Solly,  venturing  too  near  the  beach 
edge,  had  been  surprised  by  a  quick,  large 
wave.  From  his  waist  down  he  dripped  sea 
water.  His  fortitude  succumbed  before  this 
final  misfortune.  He  mingled  his  tears  with 
Miriam's,  substantially  doubling  the  output. 

Their  sorrow  might  have  touched  a  heart  of 
stone;  but  Mr.  Blotch,  embarking  on  this  mis 
sion  of  pleasure,  had  left  his  heart  behind  him, 
foreseeing  that  its  presence  might  be  inconven- 
[290] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


lent  to  a  proper  discharge  of  his  philanthropic 
obligations.  He  charged  down  upon  them, 
separated  their  entwined  arms  and,  with  ter 
rible  threats,  required  them  to  play  and  dig  in 
the  sand. 

So  they  played  and  they  dug  in  the  sand. 
Choking  back  their  sobs  and  burying  their 
little,  cold  fingers  in  the  cold,  gritty  sand,  they 
played  and  dug  through  the  long  forenoon  until 
dinnertime;  and  after  dinner  they  dug  and 
played  some  more,  until  the  hour  for  departure 
arrived,  cutting  short  all  their  blithesome 
misery. 

Beyond  question,  Solly  next  day  would  have 
developed  pneumonia,  except  that  pneumonia 
was  far  too  troublesome  a  luxury  for  any  of  the 
Finkelstein  family  to  be  having.  Besides,  at 
this  juncture  the  weather  providentially  turned 
off  to  be  warm  and  seasonable,  and,  scouting  in 
East  Broadway,  he  happened  upon  a  large, 
empty  crockery  crate,  which  seemed  to  lack  a 
friend.  He  up-ended  it,  crawled  inside  it  and 
made  off  with  it;  and  so  completely  hidden 
was  he  within  its  capsized  depths  that  one 
observing  the  spectacle  might  have  been  ex 
cused  for  assuming  that  a  crockery  crate  was 
out  for  a  walk  on  its  own  account.  In  the  joys 
of  perilous  adventures  and  treasure-findings 
Solly  conquered  his  symptoms  and  forgot  to 
fall  ill. 

The  weather  continued  to  be  warm  and 
warmer.  By  mid-July  it  was  so  warm  that 
[291] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


the  interior  of  the  tenements  became  insuffer 
able,  and  the  dwellers  slept  of  nights  on  fire 
escapes  and  in  doorways,  and  even  in  the  little 
squares  and  out  on  the  pavement  gratings, 
stretched — whole  rows  of  them — upon  pallets 
and  quilts.  The  hot  spell  afforded  Miss  Godiva 
Sleybells  an  opportunity  to  do  something  that 
was  really  worth  while  for  the  two  older  of  the 
eight  younger  Finkelsteins.  She  came  one  sim 
mering  day  and  told  them  the  splendid  news. 
They  were  to  have  a  week — a  whole  week — on  a 
farm  up  in  the  Catskills. 

With  memories  of  Coney  still  vivid  in  their 
young  brains,  Miriam  and  Solly  inwardly 
quailed  at  the  prospect;  but  they  went.  There 
was  nothing  else  for  them  to  do;  the  determined 
dragoness  in  the  double-lensed  spectacles,  who 
managed  their  mother  and  condemned  them  at 
intervals  to  trials  by  soap  and  water,  had  so  or 
dained  it. 

I  wish  I  might  say  the  two  children  were 
wrong  in  their  forebodings;  I  wish  I  might 
paint  their  week  in  the  Catskills  as  a  climactic 
success.  Perhaps  from  Miss  Godiva  Sleybells' 
viewpoint  it  was  a  success;  but,  remember,  I 
am  concerned  with  detailing  not  her  impressions 
so  much  as  the  impressions  of  these  small  wards 
of  hers. 

Remember,  too,  that  in  saying  what  I  must, 

as  a  truthful  historian,  say,  I  mean  not  to  reflect 

upon  the  common  aims  or  the  general  results  of 

that  splendid  charity  which  each  year  sends 

[292] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


thousands  of  poor  children  to  the  country, 
there  for  a  spell  to  breathe  in  a  better  air  than 
ever  they  have  breathed,  and  to  eat  of  better 
fare  than  ever  they  have  eaten.  In  this  in 
stance  I  am  afraid  the  trouble  was  that  the  city 
had  trapped  the  small  Finkelsteins  too  early. 
If  they  had  not  been  born  in  its  stone-and-steel 
cage,  at  any  rate  they  could  not  remember  a 
time  when  they  had  not  lived  in  it.  They  were 
like  birds,  which,  being  freed,  cannot  use  their 
wings  because  they  have  never  used  them,  but 
only  flutter  about  distractedly,  seeking  to  re 
turn  to  the  old  confines  within  the  bars  of  the 
prison  and  the  familiar  perches  of  its  constricted 
bounds.  Distance — free,  limitless  and  far- 
extending — daunts  those  other  birdlings  as  it 
daunted  these  two  small  human  ones.  It  was 
so  strange  an  experience  to  them  to  be  thrust 
into  the  real  out-of-doors.  And  to  most  of  us 
whatever  is  strange  is  uncomfortable — until  we 
get  accustomed  to  it. 

The  journey  mountainward  frightened  the 
small  pair.  They  had  never  been  on  a  train 
before.  As  they  clung  to  each  other,  cowering 
low  in  their  seat  every  time  the  locomotive 
hooted,  they  resolved  that  willingly  they  would 
never  be  on  one  again.  Upon  reaching  their 
destination  they  were  required  to  sleep  in  sep 
arate  beds,  which  was  an  experience  so  very 
different  from  the  agreeable  and  neighbourly 
congestion  of  sleeping  four  or  five  to  a  bed,  as  at 
home.  Next  morning  they  were  given  for 
[293] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


breakfast  country  eggs  and  country  milk — the 
one  fresh-laid  by  the  hen;  the  other  fresh- 
drawn  from  the  udder. 

For  Miriam  and  Solly  it  proved  a  most  un 
satisfactory  meal.  This  milk  came  from  a  cow, 
whereas  the  milk  they  knew  came  from  a  milk 
man.  It  was  so  yellow,  so  annoyingly  thick,  so 
utterly  lacking  in  the  clear  blue,  almost  trans 
lucent,  aspect  of  East  Side  milk!  The  Catskill 
egg  likewise  proved  disappointing.  After  the 
infrequent  Pike  Street  egg,  with  its  staunchness 
and  pungency  of  flavour,  it  seemed  but  a  weak, 
spiritless,  flat-tasting  thing. 

When  breakfast  was  over  they  went  forth 
upon  kindly  compulsion  from  the  farmhouse 
kitchen  and,  barefooted,  were  turned  loose  on  a 
grassy  mead.  At  once  all  Nature  appeared  in 
a  conspiracy  against  them.  The  wide  reaches 
of  space  disturbed  them,  whose  horizon  always 
had  been  fenced  in  with  tall,  close-racked  build 
ings.  The  very  earth  was  a  pitfall,  bearded 
with  harsh  saw-edged  grass  blades,  drenched 
with  chilly  dews,  and  containing  beneath  the 
ambush  of  its  green  covering  many  rough  and 
uneven  depressions.  The  dew  irritated  Solly's 
naked  legs,  making  him  long  for  the  soothing 
contact  of  Pike  Street's  mud-coated  cobbles. 
Miriam  stubbed  her  shrinking  pink  toes  against 
hidden  clods  when  she  essayed  a  timorous  step 
or  two  forward.  So  both  of  them  stood  still, 
then,  very  much  at  a  loss  to  know  what  they 
should  or  could  do  next. 

[294] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


Somebody  suggested  to  Miriam  that  she 
pick  the  wild  flowers  and  the  wild  vine  tendrils 
and  weave  them  into  garlands.  Was  it  her 
fault  that  her  very  first  selections  should  be  a 
spray  of  poisoned  sumac,  first  cousin  to  poison 
ivy,  and  that  her  second  should  be  a  handful  of 
nettles?  Somebody  else  undertook  to  induct 
Solly  into  the  pleasures  of  tree  climbing.  Was 
it  altogether  his  fault  that  he  should  promptly 
fall  out  of  the  first  crotch  and  painfully  sprain 
and  bruise  himself  in  several  places? 

And  when,  finally,  they  had  been  induced  to 
quit  the  immediate  proximity  of  the  farmhouse, 
which  at  least  provided  a  refuge  and  a  shelter 
from  suspected  dangers,  and  had  ventured  over 
a  fence  and  into  a  pasture,  a  most  terrible  thing 
occurred.  Toward  them  there  suddenly  ad 
vanced  an  enormous  red  creature,  tossing  a 
huge  head  crowned  with  sharp  horns,  and  emit 
ting  frightful,  rumbling  sounds  from  a  great 
rubbery  muzzle. 

With  shrieks  of  terror,  they  fled  blindly  into 
a  patch  of  woodland  that  was  perhaps  two  acres 
in  extent;  and,  losing  themselves  in  its — to  them 
— vast  and  impenetrable  depths,  they  remained 
there,  crouching  behind  a  tree  until  discovered, 
tearful,  hungry  and  disconsolate,  by  a  volunteer 
search  party  shortly  before  sunset.  Mir 
iam's  subsequent  description  of  the  monster 
that  had  menaced  them,  as  detailed  to  her 
mother,  gave  Mamma  Finkelstein  a  mental 
picture  of  something  which  might  be  likened 
[295] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


to  a  cross  between  a  raging  rhinoceros  and  a 
hook-and-ladder  motor  truck.  For  it  had  been 
many  a  year  since  Mamma  Finkelstein  herself 
had  seen  a  yearling  heifer.  And  Miriam  never 
had  seen  one  before. 

It  was  indeed  a  hard  and  an  irksome  week. 
The  end  of  it  saw  the  two  small  adventurers, 
both  sun-blistered  and  peeling,  both  broken 
out  as  to  hands  and  legs  with  strange,  irritating 
rashes,  and  both  with  gladness  in  their  little 
homesick  souls,  returning  to  the  beloved  perils 
and  the  customary  pleasures  of  the  torrid  town. 

After  this  the  Finkelsteins  for  a  while  had  a 
welcomed  respite  from  kindness.  They  fairly 
revelled  in  it;  but  not  for  a  great  while,  nor,  in 
fact,  for  very  long,  did  it  endure.  Following 
Labor  Day,  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  came 
back  from  her  country  place  up  Greenwich  way 
and  reopened  her  city  place.  It  transpired  that 
with  her  she  had  brought  a  perfectly  splendid 
idea.  She  was  going  to  establish  the  Finkel 
steins  on  an  abandoned  farm.  While  motor 
ing  about  over  the  country  lanes  in  Connecti 
cut  she  had  found  the  very  spot  for  them — an 
ideal  spot,  indeed — nine  acres,  and  nine  miles 
from  a  railroad,  with  a  ruinous  little  cottage, 
all  furnished,  perched  upon  a  rocky  hillock  in 
the  centre  of  the  nine  acres. 

It  was  upon  this  site  she  was  resolved  they 

should   be   domiciled.     There — as   she   herself 

said — Papa  Finkelstein  might  turn  farmer  and 

maybe  make  a  fortune.     There  Mamma  Finkel- 

[296] 


FIRST     CORINTHIANS 


stein  could  rear  her  brood  in  peace  and  quiet, 
far  aloof  and  remote  from  the  teeming  multi 
tude.  There  the  fresh,  pure  air  of  the  country 
would  restore  the  bloom  of  health  to  the  cheeks 
of  all  the  little  Finkelsteins.  What  mattered 
it  though  the  little  Finkelsteins  were  already  so 
healthy  that  if  they  had  been  any  healthier 
than  they  were  it  might  have  been  necessary  to 
tap  them  for  it?  I  am  not  detailing  what  was 
actually  the  case,  but  what  Mrs.  F.  Fodder- 
wood  Bass,  in  the  exuberance  engendered  by 
her  generous  impulses,  said  about  it. 

A  scheme  so  large  required  cooperation. 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  secured  it  from  Miss 
Godiva  Sleybells,  whom  she  had  met  upon 
more  than  one  occasion  when  the  two  of  them 
chanced  to  happen  in  upon  the  Finkelsteins  at 
the  same  time,  and  from  Miss  Betty  Gwin, 
who  frequently  had  been  called  upon  to  detail  to 
a  hungry  reading  public  particulars  concerning 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass'  social  and  charitable 
endeavours. 

Together  these  three  constituted  a  committee 
on  ways,  means  and  publicity.  Mrs.  F.  Fod 
derwood  Bass  provided  the  funds  for  leasing 
the  nine  acres  and  for  transporting  its  ten 
future  tenants  to  their  future  home.  Miss 
Godiva  Sleybells  agreed,  for  her  part,  to  insure 
that  the  prospective  colonists,  both  big  and 
little,  were  properly  loaded  and  properly 
shipped  to  their  destination.  Miss  Betty  Gwin 
wrote  a  moving  word  picture  two  columns 
[297] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

long  about  it,  in  which  she  mentioned  the  late 
Baron  de  Hirsch  once  and  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood 
Bass  a  great  many  times. 

Actually  the  day  preceding  the  day  set  for 
the  removal  of  the  Finkelsteins  arrived  before 
it  occurred  to  the  three  conferees  that  they  had 
entirely  forgotten  until  that  minute  to  take 
the  Finkelsteins  into  their  confidence — not  that 
it  very  much  mattered;  this  was  but  an  inci 
dental  detail,  which  before  now  had  been  alto 
gether  overlooked.  Miss  Sleybells  volunteered 
to  go  and  tell  them.  She  went  and  she  did. 

Reporting  back  to  the  principal  factor  in  this 
kindly  little  conspiracy,  Miss  Sleybells  said 
the  Finkelstein  family  had  been  stunned — lit 
erally  stunned  into  dumb  silence  by  the  grateful 
joy  the  tidings  brought  to  them.  She  said  sur 
prise  and  gratitude  had  left  them  absolutely 
speechless.  Naturally  she  had  no  way  of  know 
ing,  when  she  broke  the  glad  news,  that  Solly 
thought  of  Coney's  inhospitable  sands  and 
treacherous  seas;  that  Miriam  thought  of  the 
fearsome  Catskill  cow;  that  their  mother, 
whose  whole  life  had  been  bounded  by  two 
Ghettos — one  in  the  Old  World  and  one  in  the 
New,  and  who  knew  no  other  life — thought  of  a 
great  variety  of  things;  and  that  the  children, 
ranging  from  the  twins  downward,  would  have 
done  some  thinking,  too,  had  they  been  of  suit 
able  age  thus  to  indulge  their  juvenile  intellects. 

She  had  no  way  of  knowing  that,  when  she 
was  gone  from  among  them,  Papa  Finkelstein 
[298] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 


stood  erect  and,  elevating  his  two  hands  in  pas 
sionate  entreaty  toward  heaven,  with  solemn 
fervour  uttered  the  only  words  which  it  is  fated 
that  we,  in  this  recital,  shall  ever  hear  him  utter. 
He  spake  them  in  the  tongue  with  which  he  was 
most  conversant.  He  said: 
"Gottbtiketi!" 

September's  hurried  twilight  was  folding  in 
upon  Pike  Street.  Against  the  curbing,  sur 
rounded  by  an  admiring  throng,  stood  Mrs.  F. 
Fodderwood  Bass'  third-best  car.  Hard  by 
stood  an  express  wagon,  its  driver  ready  to 
receive  what  puny  freightage  of  household  and 
personal  belongings  as  might  be  consigned  to  his 
care.  And  upstairs,  upon  the  top  floor  of  a 
certain  tenement,  in  the  narrow  hall  outside  the 
Finkelstein  flat,  stood  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood 
Bass,  Miss  Godiva  Sleybells  and  Miss  Betty 
Gwiru  The  first  named  of  these  three  was 
come  to  witness  the  accomplishment  of  her 
beautiful  purpose;  the  second,  to  lend  her 
executive  abilities  to  the  details  of  the  under 
taking;  the  third,  to  write  a  piece  about  it. 

In  accord  with  her  regular  habit  Miss  Sley 
bells  turned  the  knob.  The  knob  turned  part 
way,  but  the  door  did  not  open;  so  she  rattled 
the  knob  and  knocked  with  her  knuckles  on  the 
panel.  Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  raised  her 
flutelike  voice  in  cooing  accents. 

"Open  the  door,  my  dear  charities,"  she  said 

clearly.  "It  is  I — your  good  angel." 

[299] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

Miss  Betty  Gwin  stooped  and  applied  a 
squinted  eye  at  the  keyhole.  Miss  Sleybells 
knocked  again — harder.  There  was  no  answer. 

I  shall  tell  you  why  there  was  no  answer. 
The  reason  is  a  good  and  sufficient  one.  All 
day  within  their  two  rooms  the  Finkelstein 
family  had  bided,  waiting,  waiting;  hoping 
against  hope.  With  the  sound  of  well-remem 
bered  footsteps  hi  the  hall  without,  with  the 
sound  of  a  well-known  voice  uplifted,  the  last 
faint  remnant  of  hope  expired. 

In  melancholy  resignation  Papa  Finkelstein 
nodded  to  Mamma  Finkelstein;  and  Mamma 
Finkelstein,  stifling  the  plaint  of  the  youngest 
baby  in  her  shawl,  nodded  back  to  him  in  sor 
rowful  confirmation  of  the  worst.  With  ges 
tures  he  imposed  deep  silence  upon  all  present. 
He  tiptoed  into  the  rear  room  and  his  people 
followed,  tiptoeing  also.  He  climbed  out  of  the 
back  window  and  descended  the  fire-escape  lad 
der  to  the  fire-escape  landing  at  the  level  of 
the  next  floor  below.  He  balanced  himself 
there  and  into  his  extended  arms,  Mamma 
Finkelstein  passed  down  to  him,  one  by  one, 
their  children;  and  he,  in  turn,  passed  them  in 
at  a  window  where  Mrs.  Esther  Rabinowitz,  a 
good-hearted  neighbour,  received  them,  and 
deposited  them  in  a  mute  row  upon  her  kitchen 
floor.  At  the  last  Mamma  Finkelstein  de 
scended  and  joined  him. 

They  assembled  their  progeny.  They  noise- 
lessly  emerged  from  Mrs.  Rabinowitz'  hall  door; 
[300] 


FIRST      CORINTHIANS 

and,  noiselessly  all,  they  fled  down  the  stairs  and 
out  into  the  gathering  twilight  of  Pike  Street, 
which  has  a  way  of  growing  shabby  and  soiled- 
looking  as  it  gathers.  They  had  deserted  all 
their  small  belongings;  they  knew  not  where 
that  night  they  might  lay  their  heads;  they 
had  no  idea  where  they  were  going — but  they 
were  on  their  way. 

Up  on  the  top  floor  Miss  Sleybells  knocked 
and  knocked  again.  Miss  Gwin  put  her  ear 
to  the  locked,  barred  door  and  listened  and 
listened  for  betraying  sounds  within;  and 
Mrs.  F.  Fodderwood  Bass  raised  her  coo  to 
yet  a  flutier  pitch.  And  while  they  were  thus 
engaged  the  Finkelstein  family,  one  and  all, 
vanished  into  the  cloaking,  protecting  dusk 
where  Pike  Street  runs  toward  the  river. 

Did  I  say  Finkelstein  family?  I  was  wrong 
there. 

For  purposes  of  better  concealment  Papa 
Finkelstein  had  changed  the  name.  The  in 
spiration  had  come  to  him  even  as  he  gripped 
the  topmost  round  of  the  fire-escape  ladder. 
Changing  it,  he  had  seen  fit  to  honour,  by  virtue 
of  self-adoption,  a  race  of  Irish  kings,  and  not 
ably  a  policeman  of  his  acquaintance,  a  de 
scendant  of  that  kingly  line.  He  changed  it  to 
Finnigan.  Loss  to  the  Finkelsteins  would 
thenceforth  be  gain  to  the  Finnigans. 

So  they  vanished  away — Papa  Meyer  Fin- 
nigan,  Mamma  Leah  Finnigan — nee  Pincus — 
[SOI] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


Miriam  Finnigan,  Solly  Finnigan,  the  Finnigan 
twins,  Izzy  and  Izzy;  Benjamin  Finnigan,  Re 
becca  Finnigan,  Lena  Finnigan,  and  so  on  down 
to  Baby  Leopold  Finnigan — and  were  gone! 

For  does  it  not  stand  written  that  —  — ?  But 
see  Corinthians — first,  thirteenth  and  fourth — 
and  notably  the  first  three  words  of  the  same. 
Only  it  should  have  been  written  there,  in  am 
plification,  that  there  is  a  limit. 


[  302  ] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ENTER   THE   VILLAIN 


IT  IS  conceded,  I  believe,  that  every  story 
should  have  a  moral;   also,  whenever  pos 
sible,  a  heroine  or  a  hero,  a  villainess  or  a 
villain,  a  plot  and  a  climax.     Now  this 
story  has  a  villain  of  sorts,  if  you  choose  to 
look  upon  him  in  that  light;   but  no  hero,  and 
no  climax.     And  certainly  there  is  no  moral  to 
adorn  the  tale.     So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
discover  it  is  absolutely  moral-less.     So  then, 
reader,  if  you,  being  thus  foreadvised  regarding 
these  avowed  shortcomings  of  my  narrative, 
choose  to  go  further  with  it,  the  responsibility 
must  be  yours  and  not  mine.     Don't  you  come 
round  afterward  saying  I  didn't  warn  you. 

The  rise  of  the  curtain  discloses  the  city 
room  of  The  Clarion,  a  New  York  morning  news 
paper.  The  hour  is  six-thirty  p.  M.,  the  period 
is  the  approximate  present,  and  the  season  is 
summer  time.  At  a  desk  in  the  foreground  is 
discovered  the  head  office  boy  in  the  act  of 
scissoring  certain  marked  passages  out  of 
[303  ] 


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copies  of  the  afternoon  papers  and  impaling 
them  upon  spindles.     Beyond  him,   at  a  big 
oaken  table  shaped  like  half  of  a  pie,  a  lone 
copy  reader  is  humped  in  his  chair,  chewing  on 
a  cold  pipestem  and  editing  a  bad  piece  of  copy 
with  a  relentless  black  lead.     In  this  case  the 
copy  reader  is  named  Hemburg.     He  is  of  a 
type  of  which  at  least  one  example  is  to  be 
found  in  nearly  every  large  newspaper  shop — a 
competent  failure,  gone  alcoholically  to  seed; 
usually  holding  down  a  desk  job;   rarely  quite 
drunk  and  rarely  quite  sober,  and  in  this  mid- 
state  of  befuddlement  performing  his  work  with 
a  strange  mechanical  accuracy;   but  once  in  a 
while  he  comes  on  duty  cold  sober — cause  un 
known — and  then  the  chances  are  he  does  some 
thing  unpardonably  wrong,  something  incred 
ibly  stupid,  which  costs  him  his  job.     Just  such 
a  man  is  this  present  man  Hemburg.     As,  shov 
ing  his  pencil,  he  carves  the  very  giblets  out  of 
the  last  sheet  of  the  belated  typewritten  manu 
script  lying  under  his  hand,  the  sunlight,  slant 
ing  in  at  a  west  window  behind  him,  falls  over 
his  shoulders  in  a  streaked  flood,  making  his  red 
dened  face  seem  redder  than  ever — as  red  as 
hearth  paint — and  turning  his  ears  a  bright, 
clear,  pinkish  colour,  as  though  they  might  be 
two  little  memorial  panes  set  there  in  dedica 
tion  to  the  wasted  life  and  the  frittered  talents 
of  their  owner. 

Farther  up  stage  the  city-hall  reporter,  who 
because  he  has  passed  his  fortieth  birthday  and 
[304  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

has  grey  in  his  hair  is  known  as  Pop,  and  the 
ship-news  reporter,  who  because  he  is  the  ship- 
news  reporter  is  known  as  Skipper,  the  same  as  in 
all  well-regulated  newspaper  offices,  are  pasting 
up  their  strings,  both  of  them  being  space  men. 
Otherwise  the  big  bare  room  with  its  rows  of 
desks  and  its  scrap-strewn  floor  is  quite  empty. 
This  hour,  coming  between  six  and  seven,  in  the 
city  room  of  The  Clarion  or  any  other  big  paper, 
is  apt  to  be  the  quietest  of  all  hours  between 
starting  time,  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  quit 
ting  time,  early  in  the  morning.  The  day  city 
editor,  having  finished  his  stint,  has  gone  off 
watch,  leaving  behind  for  his  successor,  the 
night  city  editor,  a  single  scrawled  sheet  upon 
which  is  recorded  the  tally  of  things  accom 
plished,  things  undertaken  and  things  failed 
at.  The  reporters  who  got  afternoon  assign 
ments  have  most  of  them  turned  in  their  stories 
and  have  taken  other  assignments  which  will 
keep  them  out  of  the  office  until  much  later. 
So  almost  an  ecclesiastical  quiet  fills  the  city 
room  now. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  it  is  only  in  the  dra 
matic  versions  that  a  newspaper  office  ever  at 
tains  the  aspect  of  frenzied  tumult  so  familiar 
and  so  agreeable  to  patrons  of  plays  purporting 
to  deal  with  newspaper  life.  As  usually  de 
picted  upon  the  stage,  a  city  room  near  press 
time  is  something  like  a  skating  rink,  something 
like  the  recreation  hall  of  a  madhouse,  some- 
thing  like  a  munitions  factory  working  over- 
[  305  ] 


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time  on  war  orders,  and  nothing  at  all  like  a 
city  room.  Even  when  its  manifold  activities 
are  in  full  swing  the  actual  city  room,  save  for 
the  click  of  typewriter  keys,  is  apt  to  be  as  se 
dately  quiet  as — let's  see  now!  What  would 
make  a  suitable  comparison?  Well — as  se 
dately  quiet,  say,  as  the  reading  room  of  the 
average  Carnegie  Library. 

Six-thirty-four — enter  the  villain. 

The  practical  door  at  the  right  opened  and 
Mr.  Foxman  came  in.  In  just  what  he  stood 
in  he  might  have  posed  for  the  typical  picture  of 
the  typical  New  York  business  man ;  not  the  tired 
business  man  for  whom  the  musical  shows  are 
supposed  to  be  written  but  the  kind  of  business 
man  who  does  not  tire  so  easily.  A  close- 
cropped,  greyish  moustache,  a  pair  of  nose 
glasses  riding  a  short,  pugnacious  nose  in  front 
of  two  keen  eyes,  a  well-knit  middle-age  shape 
inside  of  a  smart-fitting  suit,  a  positive  jaw,  an 
air  of  efficiency  and  a  square  shoulder — that 
briefly  would  be  Mr.  Hobart  Foxman,  man 
aging  editor  of  The  Clarion. 

His  nod  included  the  city-hall  reporter  and  the 
ship-news  man.  Passing  by  Hemburg  without 
speaking,  he  halted  a  minute  alongside  the  desk 
where  the  head  copy  boy  speared  his  shearings 
upon  his  battery  of  spindles. 

"Singlebury  come  in  yet?"  asked  Mr.  Fox 
man. 

"No,  sir;  not  yet,  sir,"  said  the  head  copy 
boy.  "But  he's  due  any  minute  now,  I  guess. 
[306] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


I  phoned  him  you  wanted  to  see  him  at  a 
quarter  to  seven." 

"When  he  comes  tell  him  to  come  right  into 
my  office." 

"Yes,  sir;  I'll  tell  him,  sir." 

"Did  you  get  those  envelopes  out  of  the 
morgue  that  I  telephoned  you  about?" 

"Yes,  sir;  they're  all  four  of  'em  on  your 
desk,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  and  he  made  as  though 
to  get  up  from  his  seat. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Foxman.  "I  guess 
I  can  find  them  without  any  help.  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes,  Benny,  I'm  not  to  be  disturbed  during  the 
next  hour  for  anything.  Nobody  is  to  see  me 
except  Singlebury.  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir — nobody,"  said  Benny.  "I'll  re 
member,  sir." 

Inside  his  own  room,  which  opened  directly 
upon  the  city  room,  Mr.  Foxman  brushed  from 
his  desk  a  neatly  piled  file  of  the  afternoon 
papers,  glanced  through  a  heap  of  mail — some 
personal  mail,  but  mostly  official — without 
opening  any  of  the  letters,  and  then  gave  his 
attention  to  four  big  soiled  manila  envelopes 
which  rested  side  by  side  upon  his  wide  blue 
blotter  pad.  One  of  these  envelopes  was 
labelled,  across  its  upper  front,  "Blake,  John 
W.";  the  second  was  labelled  "Bogardus, 
S.  P.";  the  third,  "Pratt,  Ezra";  and  the 
fourth,  "Pearl  Street  Trolley  Line."  Each  of 
the  four  bulged  dropsically  with  its  contents, 
which  contents,  when  Mr.  Foxman  had  bent 
[307] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


back  the  envelope  flaps  and  emptied  the  en 
velopes,  proved  to  be  sheafs  of  newspaper  clip 
pings,  some  frayed  with  handling  and  yellowed 
with  age,  some  still  fresh  and  crisp,  and  all 
bearing  the  stencilled  identification  mark  of  the 
functionary  who  runs  what  is  called  in  some 
shops  the  obit  department  and  in  other  shops 
the  morgue. 

Keeping  each  set  in  its  own  separate  pile, 
Mr.  Foxman  began  running  through  these 
clippings,  now  and  then  putting  aside  one  for 
future  consideration.  In  the  midst  of  this  he 
broke  off  to  take  up  his  desk  telephone  and, 
when  the  girl  at  the  private  switchboard  up 
stairs  answered,  bade  her  ring  for  him  a  cer 
tain  private  number,  not  to  be  found  in  the 
telephone  directory. 

"That  you,  Moreau?"  briskly  asked  Mr. 
Foxman  when,  after  a  short  wait,  a  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire  spoke.  "How  are  you? 
.  .  .  Quite  well,  thank  you.  ...  I  want  to 
speak  with  the  general.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  yes,  I 
know  that,  but  this  is  important — very  im 
portant.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  that  too;  but  I  won't 
detain  him  but  a  minute.  .  .  .  Thanks.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I'll  wait  right  here." 

There  was  another  little  delay  while  Mr. 
Foxman  held  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  kept 
his  lips  close  to  the  transmitter.  Then : 

"Good  evening,  general — Foxman  speaking." 

Into  the  managing  editor's  tone  was  come  a 
soothed  and  softened  deference — something  of 
[308  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

the  same  deference  which  Benny,  the  head  office 
boy,  had  used  in  addressing  Mr.  Foxman.  It 
was  a  different  tone,  very,  from  the  sharpened, 
almost  staccato  note  that  Mr.  Foxman  had  been 
employing  but  a  minute  before.  Why  not? 
Moreau  was  but  the  great  man's  private  secre 
tary  and  this  man,  whom  now  he  addressed, 
was  the  great  man  himself — General  Robert 
Bruce  Lignum,  sole  proprietor  of  The  Clarion — 
and  the  only  person,  barring  himself,  from  whom 
Mr.  Foxman  took  orders.  Big  fleas,  you  know, 
have  smaller  fleas  which  on  them  prey;  but 
while  preying,  the  little  fleas,  if  they  be  little 
fleas  wise  in  their  own  generation,  are,  I  take 
it,  likely  to  cultivate  between  bites  and  to  use 
that  flattering  conversational  accent  which,  the 
world  over,  is  the  most  subtle  tribute  that  may 
be  paid  by  the  smaller  to  the  greater  and  by  the 
greater  to  the  most  great.  In  this  agreeably 
tempered  tempo  then  Mr.  Foxman  continued, 
with  pauses  for  his  employer's  replies. 

"Sorry,  general,  to  have  to  call  you  just  as 
you're  starting  for  the  pier,  but  I  was  par 
ticularly  anxious  to  catch  you  before  you  left 
the  house."  Instinctively  he  lowered  his  voice, 
although  there  was  no  need  for  any  excess  of 
caution.  "  General,  I  think  I've  got  that  trolley- 
grab  expose  practically  lined  up.  Bogardus  told 
me  this  afternoon  that  the  third  man — you  know 
the  one  I  mean — is  ready  to  talk.  It  looks  to 
me  like  a  bigger  thing  even  than  we  thought  it 
might  be.  It's  a  scurvy  crew  we're  dealing 
[309] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


with,  but  the  end  justifies  the  means.  Don't 
you  think  so,  sir?  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  right,  too — 
when  thieves  fall  out  honest  men  get  their  due. 
.  .  .  Sir?  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  my  idea,  too — to 
spring  the  first  big  story  right  out  of  a  clear 
sky  and  then  follow  up  with  an  editorial  cam 
paign  and  supplementary  news  stories  until  we 
get  action  in  the  district-attorney's  office.  .  .  . 
How's  that,  sir?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  indeed,  general, 
not  the  slightest  particle  of  danger  in  my 
opinion.  Personally,  I  think  all  this  talk  about 
floating  mines  and  submarines  has  been  greatly 
exaggerated.  ...  I  think  you  can  go  right 
ahead  in  perfect  safety.  You  must  know,  gen 
eral,  that  I  wouldn't  be  giving  you  this  advice 
if  I  thought  there  was  the  slightest  danger.  .  .  . 
Well,  good-by,  general,  and  pleasant  voyage. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I'll  surely  find  some  way 
of  keeping  you  posted  about  the  situation  at 
Albany  if  anything  develops  in  that  quarter. 
.  .  .  Well,  good-by  again,  general." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  his  hands 
again  to  the  contents  of  the  morgue  envelopes. 
He  was  still  at  this  when  there  came  at  his  door 
a  knock. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  without  looking  up. 

The  man  who  entered  was  tall  and  slender, 
young  enough  to  be  well  this  side  of  thirty  and 
old  enough,  in  his  experiences,  to  wear  that 
manner  of  schooled,  appraising  disillusionment 
which  marks  so  many  of  his  calling.  Most 
good  reporters  look  like  good  reporters;  they 
[310] 


ENTER     THE     VILLAIN 


radiate  from  them  knowledge,  confidence,  skep 
ticism,  sometimes  a  little  of  pessimism,  and 
always  a  good  deal  of  sophisticated  enthusiasm. 
It  is  the  same  air  which  goes  with  men,  be  their 
separate  callings  what  they  may,  who  have  de 
voted  their  lives  to  prying  open  the  lid  of  the 
world  to  see  what  makes  the  thing  tick.  They 
have  a  curiosity  not  only  to  see  the  wheels  go 
round  but  to  find  out  what  the  motive  power 
behind  and  beneath  the  wheels  may  be. 

Never  mind  what  the  after-dinner  speaker 
says — the  press  is  not  an  Archimedean  lever 
and  probably  never  was.  It  is  a  kit  containing  a 
cold  chisel,  a  test  acid,  an  assay  chemical  and  a 
paint-box.  Generally  the  users  of  this  outfit 
bear  themselves  accordingly.  Once  in  a  while, 
though,  there  comes  along  a  reporter  who  de 
ceivingly  resembles  a  rather  stupid,  good- 
natured  plumber's  helper  dressed  in  his  Sunday 
best.  To  look  at  him  he  seems  as  plain  as  an 
old  shoe,  as  open  as  an  old  shoe  too.  But  if 
you  have  something  to  hide  from  the  public 
gaze,  beware  this  person.  He  is  the  most  dan 
gerous  one  of  them  all.  His  business  being 
everybody's  business,  he  is  prepared  to  go  to  any 
ends  to  dig  it  out.  As  a  professional  detective 
he  could  make  himself  famous.  He  prefers  to 
remain  a  journeyman  reporter. 

"Take  a  chair,  Singlebury,"  said  Mr.  Fox- 
man;  "I'll  be  through  here  in  just  a  minute." 

Singlebury  sat  down,  glancing  about  him.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  this  room.  He 


LOCAL      COLOR 


had  been  on  The  Clarion  s  staff  less  than  a 
month,  having  come  on  from  the  West,  where 
he  served  the  years  of  his .  apprenticeship  on 
a  San  Francisco  daily.  Presently  his  chief 
swivelled  half  round  so  as  to  face  him. 

"Young  man,"  he  said, "I've  got  a  cracking 
good  assignment  for  you — one  that  ought  to 
put  you  in  right,  in  this  shop  and  this  town. 
Ordinarily  this  job  would  go  to  Shesgren — he 
usually  handles  this  sort  of  thing  for  me — but 
Shesgren  is  up  at  Albany  keeping  his  eye  on 
General  Lignum's  political  fences,  and  I  don't 
want  to  call  him  back,  especially  as  the  general 
is  leaving  the  country  to-night.  Besides  you 
did  a  good  job  of  work  last  week  on  that  Osk- 
arson  baby-stealing  mystery,  and  so  I've  de 
cided  to  give  you  a  chance  to  swing  this  story." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Singlebury,  flushing 
up  a  little.  "I'll  do  my  best,  sir." 

"Your  best  won't  do — you've  got  to  do  bet 
ter  than  your  best.  Did  you  ever  hear,  since 
you  came  to  this  town,  of  the  Pearl  Street 
trolley  line  or  the  Pearl  Street  trolley  loop?" 

"Well,"  said  Singlebury,  "I  know  there  is 
such  a  line  as  the  Pearl  Street  line.  That's 
about  all." 

"That  needn't  hamper  you,"  said  Mr.  Fox- 
man.  "I'd  a  little  rather  you  went  at  this 
thing  with  an  open  mind,  anyhow.  These  clip 
pings  here" — he  tapped  one  heap  of  them  with 
his  forefinger — "ought  to  give  you  a  pretty  clear 
idea  of  the  situation  in  the  past,  if  you'll  read 
[  312  ] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 

'em  through  carefully.  They'll  show  you  that 
the  Pearl  Street  line  has  been  a  sort  of  financial 
football  for  certain  interests  down  in  Wall 
Street  for  a  good  many  years.  The  fellows 
behind  it  starved  it  to  death  and  let  the  equip 
ment  run  down  while  they  juggled  the  paper 
and  skinned  the  dear  public." 

"I  see,"  said  Singlebury;  "same  old  story — 
plenty  of  water  for  the  road  but  no  solid  nour 
ishment  for  the  investors." 

"That's  a  good  line,"  commended  Mr.  Fox- 
man;  "better  save  it  up  for  your  story  and  use 
it  there.  But  it's  not  the  same  old  story  over 
again.  At  least  this  time  there's  a  new  twist  to 
it. 

"Up  until  now  the  crowd  that  have  been 
manipulating  the  stock  stayed  inside  the  law, 
no  matter  what  else  they  may  have  done  that 
was  shady.  But  I  have  cause  to  believe  that  a 
new  gang  has  stepped  in — a  gang  headed  by 
John  W.  Blake  of  the  Blake  Bank.  You've 
heard  of  him,  I  guess?" 

Singlebury  nodded. 

"It's  been  known  for  some  time  on  the  inside 
that  the  Blake  outfit  were  figuring  on  a  merger 
of  some  of |  the  independent  East  Side  surface 
lines — half  ka  dozen  scattered  lines,  more  or  less. 
There've  been  stories  printed  about  this — we 
printed  some  of  them  ourselves.  What  hasn't 
been  known  was  that  they  had  their  hooks 
into  the  Pearl  Street  line  too.  Poor  outcast  as 
it  is,  the  Pearl  Street  line,  with  the  proposed 
[313] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Pearl  Street  loop  round  Five  Points — a  charter 
was  granted  for  that  extension  some  time  ago — 
will  form  the  connecting  link  to  the  combina 
tion  they're  figuring  on.  And  then  on  top  of 
that  there's  the  direct  connection  to  be  made 
with  the  new  Brooklyn  subway  that's  being 
built  now.  If  you'll  look  at  the  map  of  the 
East  Side  lines  you'll  see  for  yourself  how  im 
portant  it  is  for  the  group  that  intends  to  take 
control  of  the  trolley  lines  on  this  side  of  the 
river  and  hopes  to  control  the  subway  to  the 
other  side  of  the  river  that  they  should  have  the 
Pearl  Street  loop  in  their  grip.  With  it  they 
win;  without  it  there's  doubt  of  the  success  of 
their  plan. 

"Well,  that  part  of  it  is  legitimate  enough,  I 
suppose.  The  common  stock  of  the  Pearl 
Street  line  has  been  shoved  down  and  down  and 
down,  until  to-day  it  touched  twenty.  And 
Blake's  crowd  on  the  quiet  have  been  buying  it 
in — freezing  out  the  small  stockholders  as  they 
went  along,  and  knowing  mighty  good  and  well 
that  the  day  they  announced  their  merger  the 
stock  would  go  up  with  a  jump — thirty  or  forty 
or  fifty  points  maybe — and  then  they'd  clean 
up.  Well,  I  suppose  that's  legitimate  too — at 
least  it's  recognised  as  regular  on  Wall  Street, 
provided  you  can  get  away  with  it.  But  be 
hind  the  scenes  there's  been  some  outright, 
downright,  grand  larceny  going  on  and,  along 
with  that,  legislative  corruption  too. 

"The  stealing  has  been  covered  up  so  far, 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

under  a  blanket  of  legal  embroidery  and  fancy 
phraseology.  Trust  a  wise  outfit  of  lawyers, 
like  the  outfit  Blake  has  on  his  pay  roll,  to 
attend  to  those  little  details.  But  I  have  rea 
son  to  believe,  having  got  hold  of  the  inside 
story  from  strictly  private  sources,  that  the 
gang  now  in  control  have  laid  themselves  liable 
to  prison  sentences  by  a  few  of  the  tricks 
they've  pulled  off.  For  instance,  they  haven't 
let  a  little  thing  like  bribery  stand  in  their 
way.  They  weren't  satisfied  to  stifle  a  com 
petitive  interest  politely  and  quietly,  accord 
ing  to  the  Wall  Street  standards.  No;  these 
thugs  just  naturally  clubbed  it  to  death.  I 
guess  they  saw  so  much  in  it  for  themselves 
they  took  a  long  chance  on  being  indicted  if 
the  facts  ever  came  out.  And  I  happen  to 
know  where  we  can  get  the  facts  if  we  go  about 
it  in  the  right  way.  Listen,  carefully!" 

For  five  minutes  he  talked  on,  expounding 
and  explaining  in  straightaway,  sharp  sentences. 
And  Singlebury,  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  listen 
ing,  felt  the  lust  of  the  big-game  hunter  quicken 
within  him.  Every  real  reporter  is  a  big-game 
hunter  at  heart,  and  the  weapon  he  uses  fre 
quently  is  a  deadly  one,  even  though  it  is  noth 
ing  more  than  a  lead  pencil  costing  five  cents  at 
any  stationery  shop.  The  scent  was  in  his 
nose  now,  dilating  his  nostrils;  he  wriggled  to 
take  the  trail. 

"Now,  then,  you've  got  the  inside  dope,  as  I 
get  it  myself,"  said  Mr.  Foxman  at  the  end  of 

[315] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


those  pregnant  five  minutes.  "You  can  see  for 
yourself,  though,  that  a  good  deal  of  it — the 
vital  part  of  it  as  it  stands  now — is  mostly  sur 
mise  and  suspicion.  Naturally,  we  can't  go  to 
the  bat  against  this  gang  with  suspicions;  we'd 
probably  land  in  jail  ourselves  for  criminal  libel, 
instead  of  landing  a  few  of  them  in  jail,  as  we 
hope  to  do.  But  if  we  can  prove  up — if  we 
can  get  hold  of  the  rest  of  the  evidence — it'll 
make  one  of  the  sweetest  beats  that  was  ever 
pulled  off  in  this  town. 

"Of  course,  as  you  can  see,  John  W.  Blake  is 
the  principal  figure  in  the  whole  intrigue,  just 
as  the  Pearl  Street  line  is  the  key  to  the  merger 
scheme.  But  you  stay  away  from  Blake. 
Don't  go  near  him — yet.  If  he  gets  wind  of 
what  we  are  figuring  on  doing  here  in  this  office 
he  might  have  influence  enough  to  make 
trouble  for  us  before  we're  ready  for  the  big 
blow-off.  Leave  Blake  out  of  it  for  the  time 
being — leave  him  strictly  alone!  He  can  do 
his  talking  and  his  explaining  after  we've 
smoked  the  nigger  out  of  the  woodpile.  But 
here  are  two  other  men" — he  touched  the  re 
maining  piles  of  sorted-out  clippings — "who 
are  willing,  under  cover,  to  indulge  in  a  little 
conversation.  I  want  you  to  read  these  morgue 
clippings,  more  to  get  an  angle  on  their  per 
sonalities  than  for  any  other  reason.  Bogardus 
— Samuel  P.  Bogardus — used  to  be  Blake's  best 
little  trained  performing  lobbyist.  When  it 
comes  to  handling  the  members  of  a  general 
[316] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 


assembly  or  a  board  of  aldermen  he's  fuller  of 
cute  tricks  than  a  clown  dog  is.  Old  Pratt  is  a 
different  kind  of  crook — a  psalm-singing,  pussy 
footed  old  buccaneer,  teaching  a  Bible  class  on 
Sundays  and  thimblerigging  in  Wall  Street  on 
week  days.  As  a  Pharisee  who's  working  at 
the  trade  he'd  make  any  Pharisee  you  ever  ran 
across  out  yonder  on  the  Pacific  Slope,  where 
you  came  from,  look  like  a  piker. 

"Well,  for  reasons  best  known  to  themselves 
they  happen  just  at  present  to  be  sore  at  Blake. 
There's  been  a  falling-out.  He  may  have  used 
them  to  do  his  dirty  work  in  the  past;  and 
then,  when  this  melon  is  ripe  to  cut,  frozen 
both  of  them  out  of  the  picnic.  I  don't  care 
anything  about  their  quarrels,  or  their  motives 
either;  I  am  after  this  story. 

"Now,  then,  here's  your  campaign:  You 
take  to-night  off — I'll  tell  the  night  city  editor 
I've  assigned  you  on  a  special  detail — and  you 
spend  the  evening  reading  up  on  these  clippings, 
so  you'll  have  the  background — the  local  colour 
for  your  story — all  in  your  head.  To-morrow 
morning  at  ten  o'clock  you  go  to  the  Wampum 
Club  up  on  East  Fiftieth  Street  and  send  your 
name  in  to  Mr.  Bogardus.  He'll  be  waiting 
there  in  a  private  room  for  you,  and  old  Pratt 
will  be  with  him.  We'll  have  to  keep  them 
under  cover,  of  course,  and  protect  them  up  to 
the  limit,  in  exchange  for  the  stuff  they're  will 
ing  to  give  up  to  us.  So  you're  not  to  mention 
them  as  the  sources  of  any  part  of  your  infor- 


LOCAL      COLOR 


mation.  Don't  name  them  in  your  story  or  to 
anybody  on  earth  before  or  after  we  print  it. 
Take  all  the  notes  you  please  while  you're  with 
them,  but  keep  your  notes  put  away  where 
nobody  can  see  'em,  and  tear  'em  up  as  soon 
as  you're  done  with  'em.  They'll  probably 
keep  you  there  a  couple  of  hours,  because  they've 
got  a  lot  to  tell,  son;  take  it  from  me  they  have. 
Well,  say  they  keep  you  three  hours.  That'll 
give  you  time  to  get  your  lunch  and  catch  the 
subway  and  be  down  town  by  two-thirty. 

"At  three  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon  you 
go  to  the  law  offices  of  Myrowitz,  Godfrey,  God 
frey  &  Murtha  in  the  Pyramid  Building  on 
Cedar  Street.  Ask  to  see  Mr.  Murtha.  Send 
your  name  in  to  him;  he'll  be  expecting  you. 
Murtha  is  in  the  firm  now,  but  he  gets  out  on 
the  fifteenth — four  days  from  now.  There's 
been  a  row  there,  too,  I  believe,  and  the  other 
partners  are  shoving  him  out  into  the  cold. 
He's  sore.  Murtha  ought  to  be  able  to  tell  the 
rest  of  what  you'll  have  to  know  in  order  to 
make  our  story  absolutely  libel  proof.  It  may 
take  some  digging  on  your  part,  but  he'll  come 
through  if  you  only  go  at  him  the  right  way.  In 
questioning  him  you  can  probably  take  your 
cues  from  what  Bogardus  and  Pratt  have  al 
ready  told  you.  That  end  of  it,  though,  is  up 
to  you.  Anyhow,  by  this  time  to-morrow 
night  you  ought  to  have  your  whole  story 
lined  up." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  come  back  here  then  and 
[318] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


write  it  for  the  next  morning?"  asked  Single- 
bury. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  write  it  here  at  all," 
said  Mr.  Foxman.  "This  thing  is  too  big  and 
means  too  much  for  us  to  be  taking  a  chance  on 
a  leak  anywhere.  Have  you  got  a  quiet  room 
to  yourself  where  nobody  can  break  in  on  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Singlebury.  "I'm  living  at 
the  Godey  Arms  Hotel." 

"All  right  then,"  said  Mr.  Foxman.  "You 
rent  a  typewriter  and  have  it  sent  up  to  your 
room  to-morrow  morning.  When  you  are 
ready  to  start  you  get  inside  that  room  and  sit 
down  at  that  typewriter  with  the  door  locked 
behind  you,  and  you  stay  there  till  you've 
finished  your  yarn.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
it  in  a  day,  by  steady  grinding.  When  you're 
done  tear  up  all  your  notes  and  burn  the  scraps. 
Then  put  your  copy  in  a  sealed  envelope  and 
bring  it  down  here  and  deliver  it  to  me,  per 
sonally,  here  in  this  room — understand?  If 
I'm  busy  with  somebody  else  when  you  get 
here  wait  until  I'm  alone.  And  in  the  mean 
time,  don't  tell  the  city  editor  or  any  member 
of  the  staff,  or  your  closest  friend,  or  your  best 
girl — if  you've  got  one — that  you  are  working 
on  this  story.  You've  not  only  got  to  get  it 
but  you've  got  to  keep  your  mouth  shut  while 
you're  getting  it  and  after  you've  got  it — got  to 
keep  mum  until  we  print  it.  There'll  be  time 
enough  for  you  to  claim  credit  when  the  beat 

is  on  the  street." 

[319] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Singlebury.  "And 
I'm  certainly  mighty  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Fox- 
man,  for  this  chance." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Mr.  Foxman. 
"I'm  not  picking  you  for  this  job  because  I  like 
the  colour  of  your  hair,  or  because  I'm  taken 
by  the  cut  of  your  clothes.  I'm  picking  you 
because  I  think  you  can  swing  it.  Now,  then, 
go  to  it!" 

Singlebury  went  to  it.  With  all  his  report 
er's  heart  and  all  his  reporter's  soul  and,  most 
of  all,  with  all  his  reporter's  nose  he  went  to  it. 
Tucked  away  in  a  corner  of  the  evening  edi 
tion's  art  room,  deserted  now  and  dark  except 
for  the  circle  of  radiance  where  he  sat  beneath 
an  electric  bulb,  he  read  and  reread  the  scissor- 
ings  entrusted  to  him  by  Mr.  Foxman,  until  his 
mind  was  saturated  with  the  subject,  holding  in 
solution  a  mass  of  information  pertaining  to  the 
past  activities  of  the  Pearl  Street  trolley  line 
and  of  John  W.  Blake,  freebooter  of  big  busi 
ness;  and  of  Ezra  Pratt,  class  leader  and  finan 
cier;  and  of  S.  P.  Bogardus,  statesman  and 
legislative  agent. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  he  restored  each 
group  of  clippings  to  its  proper  envelope  and 
took  the  envelopes  to  a  grated  window  behind 
the  library  and  handed  them  in  to  a  youth 
on  duty  there.  First,  though,  he  took  time, 
sitting  there  in  the  empty  art  room,  to  write  a 
short,  joyous  letter  to  a  certain  person  in  San 
Jose,  California,  telling  her  the  big  chance  had 
[320] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


come  to  him  very  much  sooner  than  he  had 
expected,  and  that  if  he  made  good  on  it — as 
he  had  every  intention  of  doing — they  might 
not,  after  all,  have  to  wait  so  very  long  for  that 
marriage  license  and  that  wedding  and  that 
little  flat  here  in  little  old  New  York.  Then  he 
went  uptown  to  the  Godey  Arms  Hotel,  where 
his  dreams  that  night  were  such  dreams  as  an 
ambitious  young  man  very  much  in  love  with 
two  sweethearts — one  a  profession  and  the 
other  a  girl — might  be  expected  to  dream  under 
such  circumstances. 

Next  morning,  at  the  Wampum  Club,  he 
saw  Bogardus,  a  grey-haired,  rotund  man,  and 
Pratt,  an  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  smile  as 
oily  as  a  fish  duck's  apprehending  minnows, 
and  a  manner  as  gentle  as  a  fox's  stalking  a 
hen-roost.  From  these  two  he  extracted  all 
that  he  had  expected  to  get  and  more  besides. 
Indeed,  he  had  but  to  hold  out  his  hands  and 
together  they  shook  fruity  facts  and  fruitier 
figures  down  upon  him  in  a  shower.  Until 
nearly  two  o'clock  they  kept  him  with  them. 
He  had  just  time  to  snatch  a  hurried  bite  at  a 
dairy  lunch,  board  a  subway  express  at  the 
Grand  Central,  and  be  at  the  offices  of  Myro- 
witz,  Godfrey,  Godfrey  &  Murtha  at  three 
o'clock.  A  sign  painter  was  altering  the  firm's 
name  on  the  outer  door  of  the  firm's  reception 
room,  his  aim  plainly  being  to  shorten  it  by  the 
elimination  of  the  Murtha  part  of  it.  On  be- 
yond  the  door  the  gentleman  who  thus  was 


LOCAL      COLOR 


being  eliminated  received  Singlebury  in  a  pri 
vate  room  and  gave  him  nearly  two  hours  of  his 
valuable  time. 

From  what  Mr.  Foxman  had  said  Singlebury 
rather  expected  Mr.  Murtha,  at  the  outset, 
might  be  reluctant  to  furnish  the  coupling  links 
between  the  legal  chicanery  and  the  financial 
skullduggery  which  would  make  this  projected 
merger  a  conspicuous  scandal  in  a  district  of 
conspicuous  industrial  scandals;  had  rather 
expected  Mr.  Murtha's  mind  might  require 
crafty  sounding  and  skillful  pumping.  Here 
Singlebury  was  agreeably  surprised,  for,  it 
being  first  understood  that  Mr.  Murtha's  name 
was  nowhere  to  appear  in  what  Singlebury 
might  write,  Mr.  Murtha  proved  to  be  as  frank 
as  frank  could  be.  Indeed,  when  it  came  to  a 
disclosure  of  the  roles  played  by  two  of  his 
associates,  from  whom  now  he  was  parting, 
Mr.  Murtha,  the  retiring  member  of  this  well- 
known  house  of  corporation  law,  betrayed 
an  almost  brutal  frankness.  They,  doubt 
lessly,  would  have  called  it  rank  professional 
treachery — base,  personal  ingratitude  and  a 
violation  of  all  the  ethics  of  their  highly  ethical 
calling. 

Mr.  Murtha,  looking  at  things  through  very 
different  glasses,  put  it  on  the  high  ground  of 
his  duty,  as  a  citizen  and  a  taxpayer,  to  the 
general  health  and  the  general  morality  of  the 
general  public.  It  is  this  same  difference  of 
opinion  which  makes  neighbourhood  quarrels, 
[322  ] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 

lawsuits  and  wars  between  nations  popular 
in  the  most  civilised  climes. 

In  all  essential  details,  the  tale,  when  Murtha 
was  through  with  Singlebury  and  Singlebury 
was  through  with  Murtha,  stood  completed  and 
connected,  jointed  and  doubt-proof.  That  sec 
ond  evening  Singlebury  spent  in  his  room, 
arranging  his  data  in  their  proper  sequence  and 
mapping  out  in  his  head  his  introduction. 
Next  day,  all  day,  he  wrote  his  story.  Just 
before  dusk  he  drew  the  last  page  out  of  his 
typewriter  and  corrected  it.  The  job  was  done 
and  it  was  a  good  job.  It  ran  four  columns 
and  over.  It  stripped  that  traffic  grab  to  its 
bare  and  grinning  bones.  It  was  loaded  with 
bombshells  for  the  proposed  merger  and  with 
the  shrapnel  of  certain  criminal  prosecution  for 
the  men  behind  that  merger,  and  most  of  all 
for  John  W.  Blake,  the  man  behind  those  other 
and  lesser  men. 

To  Singlebury,  though,  it  was  even  more  than 
this.  To  him  it  was  a  good  story,  well  written, 
well  balanced,  happily  adjusted,  smartly 
phrased;  and  on  top  of  this,  it  was  the  most 
precious  jewel  of  a  reporter's  treasure  casket. 
It  was  a  cracking,  smashing,  earth-shaking, 
exclusive — scoop,  as  they  would  have  called  it 
out  yonder  on  the  Coast  where  he  came  from 
— beat,  as  they  would  call  it  here  in  New  York. 

Personally,  as  per  instructions,  he  put  the 
finished  manuscript  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Fox- 
man,  in  Mr.  Foxman's  office,  then  stood  by 
[  323  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


while  Mr.  Foxnian  ran  through  the  opening 
paragraphs. 

"Singlebury,"  said  Mr.  Foxman,  laying  the 
sheets  down,  "this  looks  to  me  like  a  good  piece 
of  work.  I  like  your  beginning,  anyhow.  The 
first  ten  lines  ought  to  blow  that  bunch  of 
pirates  clean  out  of  water."  He  glanced  keenly 
at  the  drooping  figure  of  the  other.  "Kind  of 
played  out,  aren't  you?" 

"A  little,"  confessed  the  reporter.  "Now 
that  it's  over,  I  do  feel  a  bit  let  down." 

"I'll  bet  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Foxman.  "Well, 
you'd  better  run  along  to  your  hotel  and  get  a 
good  night's  rest.  Take  to-morrow  off  too — 
don't  report  here  until  day  after  to-morrow; 
that'll  be  Friday,  won't  it?  All  right  then,  I'll 
see  you  Friday  afternoon  here;  I  may  have 
something  of  interest  to  say  to  you  then. 
Meanwhile,  as  I  told  you  before,  keep  your 
mouth  shut  to  everybody.  I  don't  know  yet 
whether  I'll  want  to  run  your  story  to-morrow 
morning  or  the  morning  after.  My  informa 
tion  is  that  Blake,  through  his  lawyers,  will 
announce  the  completion  of  the  merger,  prob 
ably  on  Friday,  or  possibly  on  Saturday.  I  may 
decide  to  hold  off  the  explosion  until  they  come 
out  with  their  announcement.  Really,  that 
would  be  the  suitable  moment  to  open  fire  on 
'em  and  smash  up  their  little  stock-market 
game  for  them." 

Dog-tired  and  happier  than  any  poor  dog  of  a 
[324  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

newspaper  man  has  a  right  to  be,  Singlebury 
went  to  his  room  and  to  bed.  And  when  finally 
he  fell  asleep  he  dreamed  the  second  chapter 
of  that  orange-blossomy  dream  of  his. 

Being  left  to  himself,  Mr.  Foxman  read  Sin 
glebury 's  copy  through  page  by  page,  changing 
words  here  and  there,  but  on  the  whole  enor 
mously  pleased  with  it.  Then  he  touched  a 
buzzer  button  under  his  desk,  being  minded 
to  call  into  conference  the  chief  editorial  writer 
and  the  news  editor  before  he  put  the  narrative 
into  type.  Now  it  happened  that  at  this  pre 
cise  moment  Mr.  Foxman's  own  special  boy 
had  left  his  post  just  outside  Mr.  Foxman's 
door  to  skylark  with  a  couple  of  ordinary  copy 
boys  in  the  corridor  between  the  city  room  and 
the  Sunday  room,  and  so  he  didn't  answer  the 
summons  immediately.  The  fact  was,  he 
didn't  hear  the  bell  until  Mr.  Foxman  impa 
tiently  rang  a  second  and  a  third  time.  Then 
he  came  running,  making  up  a  suitable  excuse 
to  explain  his  tardiness  as  he  came.  And  dur 
ing  that  half  minute  of  delay  there  leaped  out 
of  nowhere  into  Mr.  Foxman's  brain  an  idea — 
an  idea,  horned,  hoofed  and  hairy — which  was 
to  alter  the  current  of  his  own  life  and,  directly 
or  indirectly,  the  lives  of  scores  of  others. 

It  would  seem  I  was  a  trifle  premature,  back 
yonder  near  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  when 
I  used  the  line:  Six-thirty-four — enter  the 
villain. 

[  325  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Because,  as  I  now  realise,  the  villain  didn't 
enter  then.  The  villain  did  not  enter  until  this 
moment,  more  than  forty-eight  hours  later, 
entering  not  in  the  guise  of  a  human  being  but 
in  the  shape  of  this  tufted,  woolly  demon  of  a 
notion  which  took  such  sudden  lodgment  in 
Mr.  Foxman's  mind.  Really,  I  suppose  we 
should  blame  the  office  boy.  His  being  late 
may  have  been  responsible  for  the  whole  thing. 

He  poked  a  tow  head  in  at  the  door,  ready 
to  take  a  scolding. 

"D'yer  ring,  sir?"  he  inquired  meekly. 

"Yes,  three  times,"  said  Mr.  Foxman. 
"Where  have  you  been?" 

"Right  here,  sir.  Somethin'  you  wanted, 
sir?" 

"No;   I've  changed  my  mind.     Get  out!" 

Pleased  and  surprised  to  have  escaped,  the 
towhead  withdrew.  Very  deliberately  Mr. 
Foxman  lit  a  cigar,  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  for  a  period  took  mental  accounting  of  his 
past,  his  present  and  his  future;  and  all  the 
while  he  did  this  a  decision  was  being  forged 
for  him,  by  that  busy  devilish  little  tempter, 
into  shape  and  point  and  permanency. 

In  his  fingers  he  held  the  means  of  making 
himself  independent — yes,  even  rich.  Why- 
he  began  asking  himself  the  plaguing  question 
and  kept  on  asking  it — why  should  he  go  on 
working  his  life  out  for  twelve  thousand  dollars 
a  year  when,  by  one  safe,  secret  stroke,  he 
could  make  twelve  times  twelve  thousand,  or 
[326] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


very  possibly  more?  He  knew  what  happened 
to  newspaper  executives  who  wore  out  in  the 
harness.  Offhand,  he  could  think  of  half  a 
dozen  who  had  been  as  capable  as  he  was,  as 
active  and  as  zealous,  and  as  single-purposed 
in  their  loyalty  to  the  sheets  they  served  as  he 
was  to  this  sheet  which  he  served. 

All  of  these  men  had  held  high  editorial  posts 
and,  in  their  prime,  had  drawn  down  big  salaries, 
as  newspaper  salaries  go.  Where  were  they 
now,  since  they  had  grown  old?  He  knew 
where  they  were — mighty  good  and  well  he 
knew.  One  trying  to  run  a  chicken  farm  on 
Staten  Island  and  daily  demonstrating  that  a 
man  who  could  manage  a  newspaper  does  not 
necessarily  know  how  to  manage  a  flock  of 
temperamental  White  Leghorn  hens;  one  an 
exchange  editor,  a  neglected  and  unconsidered 
figure  of  obscurity,  a  nonentity  almost,  and  a 
pensioner,  practically,  in  the  same  shop  whose 
affairs  his  slackened  old  hands  had  once  con 
trolled;  one  or  two  more  of  them  actually 
needy — out  of  work  and  out  at  elbows;  and  so 
on,  and  so  forth,  through  the  list. 

Well,  it  rested  with  Mr.  Foxman  to  avert 
such  a  finish  to  his  own  career;  the  instrument 
fitted  to  combat  the  prospect  was  here  in  his 
grasp.  Temptation,  whispering  to  him,  bade 
him  use  it — told  him  he  would  be  a  sorry  fool 
not  to  use  it.  What  was  that  line  about  Op 
portunity's  knocking  once  at  every  man's  door? 
And  what  was  that  other  line  about  there  being 
[327] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which,  taken  at  the 
flood,  leads  on  to  fortune? 

After  all,  it  meant  only  that  he  break  faith 
with  five  men: — with  his  employer,  General 
Lignum,  who  trusted  him;  with  his  underling, 
Singlebury,  who  had  done  a  good  job  of  work  for 
him;  and  with  three  others  whom,  for  the  sake 
of  convenience,  he  mentally  grouped  together 
— Bogardus  and  Pratt  and  Murtha,  the  lawyer. 
These  three  he  eliminated  from  the  equation  in 
one  puff  of  blue  cigar  smoke.  For  they  were  all 
three  of  them  crooks  and  plotters  and  double 
dealers,  masters  of  the  dirty  trick  and  the  dirty 
device,  who  conspired  together  to  serve  not  the 
general  good,  but  their  own  squalid  and  con 
temptible  ends. 

For  General  Lignum  he  had  more  heed.  Per 
haps  I  should  say  here  that  until  this  hour  this 
man,  Hobart  Foxman,  had  been  an  honest 
man — not  just  reasonably  honest  but  abso 
lutely  honest,  a  man  foursquare  as  a  smoke 
house.  Never  before  had  it  occurred  to  him  to 
figure  up  to  see  whether  honesty  really  paid. 
He  did  some  brisk  figuring  now. 

After  all,  did  it  pay?  As  a  reporter,  back 
yonder  in  the  old  days  when  he,  a  raw  cub,  first 
broke  into  this  wearing,  grinding  newspaper 
game,  he  had  despised  fakers  and  faking  and  the 
petty  grafting,  the  cheap  sponging  to  which  he 
saw  some  reporters — not  many,  perhaps,  but 
some — descending.  As  an  assistant  sporting 
editor,  after  his  first  promotion  from  the  ranks, 
[328] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

he  had  been  content  to  live  upon  his  somewhat 
meagre  salary,  refusing  to  fatten  his  income  by 
taking  secret  pay  from  prize-fight  promoters 
wishful  of  getting  advertisements  dressed  up  as 
news  stories  into  the  columns  of  the  sporting 
page.  As  a  staff  correspondent,  first  at  Albany 
and  then  at  Washington,  he  had  walked  wide 
of  the  lobbyists  who  sought  to  corrupt  and  suc 
ceeded  in  corrupting  certain  correspondents,  and 
by  corrupting  them  were  able  sometimes  to 
colour  the  news,  sometimes  to  suppress  it. 
Always  the  dispatches  he  signed  had  been  un 
biased,  fair,  above  the  board. 

To  be  sure,  Foxman  had  played  office  politics 
the  while  he  went  up,  peg  by  peg.  To  men 
above  him  he  had  been  the  assiduous  courtier, 
crooking  the  pregnant  knee  before  those  who 
might  help  him  onward.  But,  then,  that  was  a 
part  of  the  game — office  politics  was.  Even  so, 
playing  it  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  he  had  been  on 
the  level.  And  what  had  being  on  the  level 
brought  him?  It  had  brought  him  a  place  of 
executive  authority  and  a  salary  of  twelve 
thousand  a  year.  And  these  two  things — the 
place  and  the  twelve  thousand — he  would  con 
tinue  to  have  and  to  hold  and  to  enjoy  for  just 
so  long  as  he  was  strong  enough  to  fight  off 
ambitious  younger  men,  climbing  up  from  below 
as  he  had  climbed;  or,  worse  luck,  for  just  so 
long  as  he  continued  to  please  the  mercurial 
millionaire  who  two  years  earlier,  at  public  out 
cry,  had  bought  The  Clarion,  lock,  stock  and 
[329] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


barrel,  with  its  good  will  and  fixtures — just  as  a 
man  might  buy  a  cow  with  its  calf  in  the  drov 
er's  pen. 

That  brought  him  round  again  to  a  consider 
ation  of  General  Lignum.  Metaphysically  he 
undressed  the  general  and  considered  him 
naked.  He  turned  him  about  and  looked  at 
him  on  every  side.  The  result  was  not  flatter 
ing  to  that  impressive  and  dignified  gentleman. 
Was  General  Lignum  so  deserving  of  consider 
ation?  What  had  General  Lignum  ever  done 
in  all  his  luxurious  days  to  justify  him  to  a 
place  in  the  sun?  Lignum  never  worked  for 
his  millions;  he  inherited  them.  When  Lig 
num  bought  The  Clarion,  then  as  now  a  losing 
property,  he  had  been  actuated  by  the  same 
whim  which  makes  a  spoiled  child  crave  the 
costliest  toy  in  the  toy  shop  and,  like  that 
spoiled  child,  he  would  cast  it  aside,  unmindful 
of  its  future,  in  the  same  hour  that  he  tired  of 
his  newest  possession  and  of  the  cost  of  its 
upkeep. 

Wasn't  Lignum  lavishing  wads  of  his  easy- 
come,  easy-go  money  on  it  now,  because  of  his 
ambition  to  be  a  United  States  senator?  Most 
certainly  he  was — for  that  and  nothing  else. 
Barring  his  wealth,  which  was  a  gift  to  him, 
and  his  newspaper,  which  was  a  plaything, 
what  qualified  this  dilettante  to  sit  in  the  seats 
of  the  mighty?  What  did  Lignum  know  of  the 
toil  and  the  sweat  and  the  gifts  spent  by  men, 
whose  names  to  him  were  merely  items  in  a 
[330] 


pay  roll,  to  make  The  Clarion  a  power  in  the 
community  and  in  the  country?  What  did  he 
care?  In  the  last  analysis  what  anyhow  was 
this  General  Robert  Bruce  Lignum  except  a 
bundle  of  pampered  selfishness,  wrapped  up  in 
a  membrane,  inclosed  in  a  frock  coat  and  lidded 
under  a  high  hat?  When  he  got  that  far  Mr. 
Foxman  decided  he  owed  Lignum  nothing,  as 
compared  with  what  Lignum  owed  him.  Well, 
here  was  a  chance  to  collect  the  debt,  with  back 
dividends  and  interest  accrued.  He  would  col 
lect.  He  would  make  himself  independent  of 
the  whims  of  Lignum,  of  the  necessity  of  daily 
labour,  of  the  uncertainties  of  his  position,  of  the 
certainty  of  the  oncoming  of  age  when  his  hand 
must  tire  and  his  wits  grow  blunted. 

This  left  to  be  disposed  of — only  Singlebury. 
And  Singlebury,  in  Mr.  Foxman's  mind,  was 
now  become  the  least  of  the  factors  concerned. 
In  this,  his  new  scheme  of  things  that  had 
sprung  full-grown  from  the  loins  of  a  great  and 
a  sudden  desire,  a  Singlebury  more  or  less  mat 
tered  not  a  whit.  In  the  same  moment  that  he 
decided  to  discard  Singlebury  the  means  of  dis 
carding  Singlebury  came  to  him. 

That  inspiration  clarified  the  situation  tre 
mendously,  interlocking  one  part  of  his  plan 
with  the  others.  In  any  event  the  lips  of  Pratt, 
Bogardus  and  Murtha  were  closed,  and  their 
hands  tied.  By  now  Lignum  was  at  least  a 
thousand  miles  out  at  sea.  In  the  working  out 
of  his  scheme  Foxman  would  be  safe  from 


LOCAL      COLOR 


the  meddlings  and  muddlings  of  Old  Lignum. 
Already  he  had  begun  to  think  of  that  gentle 
man  as  Old  Lignum  instead  of  as  General  Lig 
num,  so  fast  were  his  mental  aspects  and  atti 
tudes  altering.  Finally,  with  Singlebury  out 
of  the  way,  the  plot  would  stand  up,  a  com 
pleted  and  almost  a  perfect  edifice. 

However,  there  was  one  contingency  to  be 
dared.  In  a  way  it  was  a  risk,  yet  an  inevitable 
one.  No  matter  what  followed  he  must  put 
the  expose  story  into  print;  that  absolutely  was 
requisite  to  the  proper  development  of  the  plan. 
For  Mr.  Foxman  well  knew  the  psychological 
effect  of  the  sight  of  cold  type  upon  the  minds  of 
men  planning  evil  things.  He  didn't  know 
John  W.  Blake  personally,  but  he  knew  John 
W.  Blake's  kind,  and  he  figured  John  W.  Blake 
as  being  in  his  essentials  no  different  from  the 
run  of  his  kind.  Nor  was  he  wrong  there,  as 
will  appear.  Moreover,  the  risk,  while  neces 
sary  to  the  carrying  out  of  his  present  designs, 
was  a  risk  only  in  the  light  of  possibilities  arising 
later.  Being  now  fully  committed  to  the  ven 
ture,  he  told  himself  he  shouldn't  much  care  if 
detection  did  come  after  the  accomplishment  of 
his  purpose.  Long  before  that  could  happen, 
he,  having  made  his  pile  and  being  secure  in  the 
possession  of  a  fortune,  would  be  able  to  laugh 
in  the  faces  of  his  own  little  world,  because  any 
how  he  meant  to  move  on  into  another  circle 
very  soon  thereafter.  Yes;  there  was  one  risk 
to  be  taken.  On  the  instant  that  he  arrived  at 
[332] 


ENTER     THE     VILLAIN 

this  point  in  his  reasonings  he  set  about  taking 
it. 

First  off,  he  read  Singlebury's  copy  through 
once  more,  amending  the  wording  in  a  few 
places.  He  made  certain  accusations  direct 
and  forcible  where  the  reporter,  in  his  careful 
ness,  had  been  a  trifle  vague.  Then  he  drew  to 
him  a  block  of  copy  paper  and  set  about 
heading  and  subheading  the  story.  In  the 
days  when  he  sat  in  the  slot  of  a  copy  desk  Mr. 
Foxman  had  been  a  master  hand  at  headlining; 
with  disuse  his  knack  of  hand  had  not  grown 
rusty.  He  built  and  balanced  a  three-column, 
three-decker  top  caption  and,  to  go  under  it, 
the  heavy  hanging  indentions  and  the  bold  cross 
lines.  From  the  body  of  the  manuscript,  also, 
he  copied  off  several  assertions  of  a  particular 
emphasis  and  potency  and  marked  them  to  go 
at  the  top  of  the  story  in  blackface,  with  a  box 
about  them.  This  much  done,  he  went  to  his 
door  and  hailed  the  night  city  editor,  sitting  a 
few  yards  away. 

"Oh,  Sloan,"  he  said,  "send  a  boy  upstairs 
for  McManus,  will  you?" 

"McManus  isn't  here  to-night,"  answered 
Sloan.  He  got  up  and  came  over  to  his  chief. 
McManus  was  the  make-up  editor. 

"This  isn't  McManus'  night  off,  is  it?" 
asked  Mr.  Foxman. 

"No,  Mac's  sick,"  explained  Sloan;  "he 
was  complaining  last  night  and  went  home 
early,  and  I  stayed  on  to  make  up  his  last  two 
[333  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


pages  for  him.  A  little  while  ago  his  wife  tele 
phoned  in  from  Bayside  that  he  was  in  bed 
with  a  high  fever.  She  said  the  doctor  said 
it  was  a  touch  of  malaria  and  that  Mac  couldn't 
possibly  get  back  to  work  for  a  week,  anyhow." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Foxman  slowly.  He  ran 
his  eye  over  the  city  room.  "Whom  did  you 
put  on  in  his  place?" 

"Gykeman." 

"Gykeman,  eh?"  Mr.  Foxman  considered  a 
moment.  This  news  of  McManus'  indisposi 
tion  pleased  him.  It  showed  how  willing  was 
Fate  to  keep  on  dealing  him  the  winning  cards. 
But  Gykeman  wasn't  his  choice  for  the  task 
he  had  in  mind;  that  called  for  someone  of  a 
less  inquiring,  less  curious  mind  than  Gykeman 
owned.  Again  his  eye  ranged  the  city  room. 
It  fell  on  a  swollen  and  dissipated  face,  purplish 
under  the  electric  lights. 

"I  believe  you'd  better  bring  Gykeman  back 
downstairs,"  he  said,  "I  want  him  to  read  copy 
on  that  Wilder  poisoning  case  that's  going  to 
trial  to-morrow  in  General  Sessions.  Let's 
see."  He  went  through  the  pretense  of  can 
vassing  the  available  material  in  sight.  Then: 

"Hemburg  will  do.  Put  Hemburg  on  make 
up  until  Mac  is  well  again." 

"Hemburg?"  The  city  editor's  eyebrows 
arched  in  surprise.  "I  thought  you  didn't 
think  very  highly  of  Hemburg,  Mr.  Foxman." 

"Hemburg's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Foxman 
crisply;  "it's  his  personal  habits  I  don't  fancy 
[334,  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


very  much.  Still,  with  half  a  load  on  Hem- 
burg  is  capable  enough — and  I  never  saw  him 
with  less  than  half  a  load  on.  He  can  handle 
the  make-up ;  he  used  to  be  make-up  man  years 
ago  on  the  old  Star-Ledger,  it  seems  to  me.  Put 
him  on  instead  of  Gykeman — no,  never  mind; 
send  him  in  here  to  me.  I'll  tell  him  myself 
and  give  him  some  good  advice  at  the  same 
time." 

"Well,  just  as  you  think  best,"  said  Sloan, 
miffed  that  his  own  selection  should  have  been 
rejected,  but  schooled  to  an  unquestioning 
obedience  by  the  seemingly  slack — but  really 
rigorous — discipline  of  a  newspaper  shop. 
"I'll  send  him  right  in." 

Two  minutes  later  Hemburg  was  standing  in 
an  attitude  of  attention  alongside  Mr.  Fox- 
man's  desk,  and  from  his  chair  Mr.  Foxman 
was  looking  up  at  him  steadily. 

"Hemburg,"  he  stated,  "I  can't  say  that 
I've  been  altogether  pleased  with  you  here  of 
late." 

Hemburg  put  up  a  splotched,  tremulous 
hand,  to  hide  a  weak  mouth,  and  spoke  in  his 
own  defence  from  between  his  fingers. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  if  anything  has  gone  wrong, 
Mr.  Foxman,"  he  began;  "I  try— 

"I  don't  mean  there's  any  particular  com 
plaint,"  stated  Mr.  Foxman,  "only  it  struck  me 
you've  been  getting  into  a  rut  lately.  Or  that 
you've  been  going  stale — let's  put  it  that  way. 
On  my  own  judgment  I've  given  orders  that  you 
[335  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


are  to  go  on  make-up  temporarily,  beginning 
to-night.  It's  up  to  you  to  make  good  there. 
If  you  do  make  good,  when  McManus  comes 
back  I'll  look  round  and  see  if  there  isn't  some 
thing  better  than  a  forty-dollar-a-week  copy- 
reading  job  for  you  hi  this  office." 

"I'm — I'm  certainly  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Foxman,"  stuttered  Hemburg.  "I  guess  may 
be  I  was  getting  logy.  A  fellow  certainly  does 
get  in  a  groove  out  there  on  that  copy  desk," 
he  added  with  the  instinct  of  the  inebriate  to 
put  the  blame  for  his  shortcomings  on  anything 
rather  than  on  the  real  cause  of  those  short 
comings. 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Mr.  Foxman;  "let's  see 
if  making  a  change  won't  work  a  cure.  Do  you 
see  this?"  and  he  put  his  hand  on  the  sheaf  of 
Singlebury's  copy  lying  on  his  desk,  under  the 
captions  he  himself  had  done.  "Well,  this  may 
turn  out  to  be  the  biggest  beat  and  the  most 
important  story  that  we've  put  over  in  a  year. 
It's  all  ready  to  go  to  the  type-setting  machines 
—I  just  finished  reading  copy  on  it  myself. 
But  if  it  leaks  out — if  a  single  word  about  this 
story  gets  out  of  this  building  before  we're 
ready  to  turn  it  loose  on  the  street — the  man 
responsible  for  that  leak  is  going  to  lose  his  job 
no  matter  who  or  what  he  is.  Understand? 

"Now,  then,  excepting  you  and  me  and  the 
man  who  wrote  it,  nobody  employed  inside  this 
building  knows  there  is  such  a  story.  I  want 
you  to  take  it  upstairs  with  you  now.  Don't 

[336] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 

let  'em  cut  it  up  into  regular  takes  for  the 
machines.  Tell  the  composing-room  foreman 
— it'll  be  Riordan,  I  guess — that  he's  to  take 
his  two  best  machine  operators  off  of  whatever 
they're  doing  and  put  'em  to  work  setting  this 
story  up,  and  nothing  else.  Those  two  men 
are  to  keep  right  at  it  until  it's  done.  I  want  a 
good,  safe-mouthed  man  to  set  the  head.  I 
want  the  fastest  proofreader  up  there,  whoever 
that  may  be,  to  read  the  galley  proofs,  holding 
copy  on  it  himself.  Impress  it  on  Riordan  to 
tell  the  proofreader,  the  head  setter  and  the  two 
machine  men  that  they  are  not  to  gab  to  any 
one  about  what  they're  doing.  When  the  story 
is  corrected  I  want  you  to  put  it  inside  a  chase 
with  a  hold-for-release  line  on  it,  and  cover  it 
up  with  print  paper,  sealed  and  pasted  on,  and 
roll  it  aside.  We've  already  got  one  hold-for- 
release  yarn  in  type  upstairs;  it's  a  Washing 
ton  dispatch  dealing  with  the  Mexican  situa 
tion.  Better  put  the  two  stories  close  together 
somewhere  out  of  the  way.  Riordan  will  know 
where  to  hide  them.  Then  you  bring  a  set  of 
clean  proofs  of  this  story  down  here  to  me — to 
night.  I'll  wait  right  here  for  you. 

"I'd  like  to  run  the  thing  to-morrow  morning, 
leading  with  two  columns  on  the  front  page 
and  a  two-column  turnover  on  page  two.  But 
I  can't.  There's  just  one  point  to  be  cleared 
up  before  it'll  be  safe  to  print  it.  I  expect  to 
clear  up  that  point  myself  to-morrow.  Then 
if  everything  is  all  right  I'll  let  you  know  and 
[337] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


we'll  probably  go  to  the  bat  with  the  story 
Friday  morning;  that'll  be  day  after  to-morrow. 
If  it  should  turn  out  that  we  can't  use  it  I  want 
you  to  dump  the  whole  thing,  head  and  all, 
and  melt  up  the  lead  and  forget  that  such  a 
story  ever  passed  through  your  hands.  Be 
cause  if  it  is  safe — if  we  have  got  all  our  facts 
on  straight — it'll  be  a  great  beat.  But  if  we 
haven't  it'll  be  about  the  most  dangerous  chunk 
of  potential  libel  that  we  could  have  knocking 
about  that  composing  room.  Do  you  get  the 
point?" 

Hemburg  said  he  got  it.  His  instructions 
were  unusual;  but,  then,  from  Mr.  Foxman's 
words  and  manner,  he  realised  that  the  story 
must  be  a  most  unusual  one  too.  He  carried 
out  the  injunctions  that  had  been  put  upon  him, 
literally  and  painstakingly.  And  while  so  en 
gaged  he  solemnly  pledged  himself  never  again 
to  touch  another  drop  of  rum  so  long  as  he 
lived.  He  had  made  the  same  promise  a  hun 
dred  times  before.  But  this  time  was  different 
— this  time  he  meant  it.  He  was  tired  of  being 
a  hack  and  a  drudge.  This  was  a  real  oppor 
tunity  which  Mr.  Foxman  had  thrown  in  his 
way.  It  opened  up  a  vista  of  advancement  and 
betterment  before  him.  He  would  be  a  fool 
not  to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  a  bigger  fool 
still  ever  to  drink  again. 

Oh,  but  he  meant  it!  It  would  be  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  for  him  hereafter;  the 
good  old  water-wagon  for  his,  world  without 
[838] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 

end,  amen.  Noticeably  more  tremulous  as  to  his 
fingers  and  his  lips,  but  borne  up  with  his  high 
resolve,  he  put  the  clean  proofs  of  the  completed 
story  into  Mr.  Foxman's  hands  about  mid 
night,  and  then  hurried  back  upstairs  to  shape 
the  layout  for  the  first  mail  edition. 

As  Mr.  Foxman  read  the  proofs  through  he 
smiled  under  his  moustache,  and  it  was  not  a 
particularly  pleasant  smile,  either.  Printer's 
ink  gave  to  Singlebury's  masterpiece  a  sinister 
emphasis  it  had  lacked  in  the  typewritten  copy; 
it  made  it  more  forceful  and  more  forcible.  Its 
allegations  stuck  out  from  the  column-wide 
lines  like  naked  lance  tips.  And  in  the  top  deck 
of  the  flaring  scare  head  the  name  of  John  W. 
Blake  stood  forth  in  heavy  black  letters  to 
catch  the  eye  and  focus  the- attention.  Mr. 
Foxman  rolled  up  the  proof  sheets,  bestowed 
them  carefully  in  the  inside  breast  pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  shortly  thereafter  went  home  and  to 
bed. 

But  not  to  sleep.  Pleasing  thoughts,  all 
trimmed  up  with  dollar  marks,  ran  through  his 
head,  chasing  away  drowsiness.  All  the  same 
he  was  up  at  eight  o'clock  that  morning — two 
hours  ahead  of  his  usual  rising  time.  Mrs. 
Foxman  was  away  paying  a  visit  to  her  people 
up-state — another  fortunate  thing.  He  break 
fasted  alone  and,  as  he  sipped  his  coffee,  he 
glanced  about  him  with  a  sudden  contempt  for 
the  simple  furnishings  of  his  dining  room. 
Well,  there  was  some  consolation — this  time 
[339] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


next  year,  if  things  went  well,  he  wouldn't  be 
slaving  his  life  out  for  an  unappreciative  task 
master,  and  he  wouldn't  be  living  in  this  cheap, 
twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year  flat,  either.  His 
conscience  did  not  trouble  him;  from  the  mo 
ment  the  big  notion  came  to  him  it  had  not. 
Greed  had  drugged  it  to  death  practically  in 
stantaneously. 

No  lees  of  remorse,  no  dreggy  and  bitterish 
reflections,  touching  upon  the  treachery  he  con 
templated  and  the  disloyalty  to  which  he  had 
committed  himself,  bothered  him  through  that 
busy  day.  In  his  brain  was  no  room  for  such 
things,  but  only  for  a  high  cheerfulness  and 
exaltation.  To  be  sure,  he  was  counting  his 
chickens  before  they  were  hatched,  but  the  eggs 
were  laid,  and  he  didn't  see  how  they  could 
possibly  addle  between  now  and  the  tallying 
time  of  achieved  incubation.  So,  with  him  in 
this  frame  of  mind,  the  day  started.  And  it 
was  a  busy  day. 

His  first  errand  was  to  visit  the  safety-deposit 
vaults  of  a  bank  on  lower  Broadway.  In  a  box 
here,  in  good  stable  securities  of  a  total  value  of 
about  sixteen  thousand  dollars,  he  had  the  bulk 
of  his  savings.  He  got  them  out  and  took  them 
upstairs,  and  on  a  demand  note  the  president  of 
the  bank  loaned  him  twelve  thousand  dollars, 
taking  Mr.  Foxman's  stocks  and  bonds  as  col 
lateral.  In  the  bank  he  had  as  a  checking  ac 
count  a  deposit  somewhat  in  excess  of  two 
thousand  dollars.  Lying  to  Mrs.  Foxman's 
[340] 


ENTER      THE      VILLAIN 

credit  was  the  sum  of  exactly  ten  thousand 
dollars,  a  legacy  from  an  aunt  recently  dead,  for 
which  as  yet  Mrs.  Foxman  and  her  husband  had 
found  no  desirable  form  of  investment.  Fortu 
nately  he  held  her  power  of  attorney.  He  trans 
ferred  the  ten  thousand  from  her  name  to  his, 
which,  with  what  he  had  just  borrowed  and  what 
he  himself  had  on  deposit,  gave  him  an  available 
working  capital  of  a  trifle  above  twenty-four 
thousand  dollars.  He  wrote  a  check  payable 
to  bearer  for  the  whole  stake  and  had  it  certified, 
and  then,  tucking  it  away  in  his  pocket,  he  went 
round  the  corner  into  Broad  Street  to  call  upon 
John  W.  Blake  at  the  Blake  Bank.  The  su 
preme  moment  toward  which  he  had  been  ad 
vancing  was  at  hand. 

As  a  man  of  multifarious  and  varied  interests, 
and  all  of  them  important,  Mr.  Blake  was  a  rea 
sonably  busy  man.  Before  now  ordinary  news 
paper  men  had  found  it  extremely  hard  to  see 
Mr.  Blake.  But  Mr.  Foxman  was  no  ordinary 
newspaper  man;  he  was  the  managing  editor  of 
The  Clarion,  a  paper  of  standing  and  influence, 
even  if  it  didn't  happen  to  be  a  money-maker 
at  present.  Across  a  marble-pillared,  brass- 
grilled  barrier  Mr.  Foxman  sent  in  his  card  to 
Mr.  Blake  and,  with  the  card,  the  word  that 
Mr.  Foxman  desired  to  see  Mr.  Blake  upon 
pressing  and  immediate  business.  He  was  not 
kept  waiting  for  long.  An  office  boy  turned 
him  over  to  a  clerk  and  the  clerk  in  turn  turned 
him  over  to  a  secretary,  and  presently,  having 
[341] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


been  ushered  through  two  outer  rooms,  Mr. 
Foxman,  quite  at  his  ease,  was  sitting  in  Mr. 
Blake's  private  office,  while  Mr.  Blake  read 
through  the  galley  proofs  of  Singlebury's 
story  to  which  the  caller  had  invited  his  at 
tention 

The  gentleman's  face,  as  he  read  on,  gave  no 
index  to  the  feelings  of  the  gentleman.  Any 
how,  Mr.  Blake's  face  was  more  of  a  manifest 
than  an  index;  its  expression  summed  up  con 
clusions  rather  than  surmises.  As  a  veteran 
player — and  a  highly  successful  one — in  the 
biggest  and  most  chancy  game  in  the  world, 
Mr.  Blake  was  fortunate  hi  having  what  lesser 
gamesters  call  a  poker  face.  Betraying  neither 
surprise,  chagrin  nor  indignation,  he  read  the 
article  through  to  the  last  paragraph  of  the  last 
column.  Then  carefully  he  put  the  crumpled 
sheets  down  on  his  big  desk,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  made  a  wedge  of  his  two  hands  by  match 
ing  finger  tip  to  finger  tip,  aimed  the  point  of 
the  wedge  directly  at  Mr.  Foxman,  and  looked 
with  a  steadfast  eye  at  his  visitor.  His  visitor 
looked  back  at  him  quite  as  steadily,  and  for  a 
moment  or  two  nothing  was  said. 

"Well,  Mr.  Foxman?"  remarked  Mr.  Blake 
at  length.  There  was  a  mild  speculation  in  his 
inflection — nothing  more. 

"Well,  Mr.  Blake?"  replied  the  other  in  the 
same  casual  tone. 

"I  suppose  we  needn't  waste  any  time  spar- 
ring  about,"  said  Mr.  Blake.  "I  gather  that 
[342  J 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

your  idea  is  to  publish  this — this    attack,    in 
your  paper?" 

"That,  Mr.  Blake,  is  exactly  my  idea,  un 
less" — and  for  just  a  moment  Mr.  Foxman 
paused — "unless  something  should  transpire  to 
cause  me  to  change  my  mind." 

"I  believe  you  told  me  when  you  came  in  that 
at  this  moment  you  are  in  absolute  control  of 
the  columns  and  the  policy  of  The  Clarion?" 

"I  am — absolutely." 

"And  might  it  be  proper  for  me  to  ask  when 
you  contemplate  printing  this  article — in  what 
issue?"  Mr.  Blake  was  very  polite,  but  no 
more  so  than  Mr.  Foxman.  Each  was  taking 
the  cue  for  his  pose  from  the  other. 

"It  is  a  perfectly  proper  question,  Mr. 
Blake,"  said  Mr.  Foxman.  "I  may  decide  to 
print  it  day  after  to-morrow  morning.  In  the 
event  of  certain  contingencies  I  might  print  it 
to-morrow  morning,  and  again  on  the  other 
hand" — once  more  he  spoke  with  deliberate 
slowness — "I  might  see  my  way  clear  to  sup 
pressing  it  altogether.  It  all  depends,  Mr. 
Blake." 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  with  this 
warning  which  you  have  so  kindly  given  me 
I  have  ample  opportunity  to  enjoin  you  in  the 
courts  from  printing  all  or  any  part  of  this 
article  on  to-morrow  or  any  subsequent  day?" 

"You  are  at  perfect  liberty  to  try  to  enjoin 
us,  Mr.  Blake.     But  did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  such  a  step  wouldn't  help  your  case  in  the 
[343] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


least?  Go  ahead  and  enjoin,  Mr.  Blake,  if  you 
care  to,  and  see  what  would  happen  to  you  in 
the  matter  of — well,  let  us  say,  undesirable  pub 
licity.  Instead  of  one  paper  printing  these 
facts — for  they  are  facts,  Mr.  Blake — you 
would  have  all  the  papers  printing  them  in  one 
shape  or  another." 

"Without  arguing  that  point  further  just 
now,  might  I  be  allowed  to  mention  that  I  fail 
to  understand  your  motive  in  coming  to  me, 
Mr.  Foxman,  at  this  time?"  said  the  banker. 

"Mr.  Blake,"  said  Mr.  Foxman,  contem 
plating  the  tip  of  his  cigar,  "I'll  give  you  two 
guesses  as  to  my  motive,  and  your  first  guess 
will  be  the  correct  one." 

"I  see,"  stated  the  other  meditatively,  almost 
gently.  Then,  still  with  no  evidences  of  heat 
or  annoyance:  "Mr.  Foxman,  there  is  a  reason 
ably  short  and  rather  ugly  word  to  describe 
what  you  are  driving  at.  Here  in  this  part  of 
town  we  call  it  blackmail." 

"Mr.  Blake,"  answered  the  editor  evenly, 
"there  is  a  much  shorter  and  even  uglier  word 
which  describes  your  intentions.  You  will  find 
that  word  in  the  second — or  possibly  it  is  the 
third — line  of  the  first  paragraph  of  the  matter 
you  have  just  been  reading.  The  word  is 
'steal."1 

"Possibly  you  are  right,  Mr.  Foxman,"  said 

Mr.  Blake  dryly.     He  drew  the  proof  sheets  to 

him,  adjusted  his  glasses  and  looked  at  the  top- 

most  sheet.     "Yes,  you  are  right,  Mr.  Foxman 

[344] 


ENTER     THE     VILLAIN 

—I  mean  about  the  word  in  question.  It  ap 
pears  in  the  second  line."  He  shoved  the  proofs 
aside.  "It  would  appear  you  are  a  reasonable 
man — with  a  business  instinct.  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  am  reasonable  and  I  have  been  in  busi 
ness  a  good  many  years.  Now,  then,  since  we 
appear  to  be  on  the  point  of  thoroughly  under 
standing  each  other,  may  I  ask  you  another 
question?" 

"You  may." 

"What  is  your  price  for  continuing  to  be — 
ahem — reasonable?  " 

"I  can  state  it  briefly,  Mr.  Blake.  Being 
a  newspaper  man,  I  am  not  a  wealthy  man.  I 
have  an  ambition  to  become  wealthy.  I  look 
to  you  to  aid  me  in  the  accomplishment  of  that 
desire.  You  stand  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a 
great  deal  of  money,  though  you  already  have  a 
great  deal.  I  stand  in  the  position  not  only  of 
being  able  to  prevent  you  from  making  that 
money,  but  of  being  able  to  make  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  for  you,  besides.  Or,  looking  at  the 
other  side  of  the  proposition,  I  have  the  power 
to  permit  you  to  go  ahead  with  your  plans. 
Whether  or  not  I  exercise  that  power  rests 
entirely  with  you.  Is  that  quite  plain?" 

"Very.  Pray  proceed,  Mr.  Foxman.  You 
were  going  to  say 

"I  was  going  to  say  that  since  you  hope  to 
make  a  great  deal  of  money  I  wish  by  cooperation 
with  you,  as  it  were,  to  make  for  myself  a  sum 
which  I  regard  as  ample  for  my  present  needs." 
[345  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"And  by  ample — you  mean  what?" 

"I  mean  this:  You  are  to  carry  me  with  your 
brokers  for  ten  thousand  shares  of  the  common 
stock  of  the  Pearl  Street  trolley  line  on  a  ten- 
point  margin.  The  account  may  be  opened  in 
the  name  of  Mr.  X;  I,  of  course,  being  Mr.  X. 
I  apprehend  that  the  party  known  as  X  will  see 
his  way  clear  to  closing  out  the  account  very 
shortly  after  the  formal  announcement  of  your 
plans  for  the  East  Side  transit  merger — cer 
tainly  within  a  few  days.  If  there  should  be 
any  losses  you  will  stand  them  up  to  and  in 
cluding  the  ten-point  margin.  If  there  should 
be  any  profits  they  go,  of  course,  to  Mr.  X. 
I  do  not  anticipate  that  there  will  be  any  losses, 
and  I  do  anticipate  that  there  will  be  some 
profits.  In  payment  for  this  friendly  accom 
modation  on  your  part,  I  for  my  part  will  en 
gage  to  prevent  the  publication  in  The  Clarion, 
or  elsewhere,  of  the  statements  contained  in 
those  proofs  and  now  standing  in  type  in  our 
composing  room,  subject  to  my  order  to  print 
the  story  forthwith,  or  to  withhold  it,  or  to  kill 
it  outright." 

"Anything  else,  Mr.  Foxman?"  inquired  Mr. 
Blake  blandly. 

"Yes,  one  other  thing:  You  are  to  give  the 
necessary  order  now,  in  my  presence,  over  the 
telephone  to  your  brokers.  After  that  you  are 
to  go  with  me  to  their  offices  to  complete  the 
transaction  and  to  identify  me  properly  as  the 
Mr.  X  who  is  to  be  the  owner  of  this  particular 
[346] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


account;  also  you  are  to  explain  to  them  that 
thereafter  the  account  is  subject  to  my  orders 
and  mine  alone.  I  think  that  will  be  sufficient." 

"It  would  seem,  Mr.  Foxman,  that  you  do 
not  trust  me  to  deal  fairly  with  you  in  this 
matter?" 

"  I  do  not  have  to  trust  you,  Mr.  Blake.  And 
so  I  choose  not  to." 

"Exactly.  And  what  guaranty  have  I  that 
you  will  do  your  part?" 

"Only  my  word,  Mr.  Blake.  You  will  ob 
serve  now  that  the  shoe  is  on  the  other  foot. 
I  do  not  have  to  trust  you — whereas  you  do 
have  to  trust  me.  But  if  you  need  any  guar 
anty  other  than  the  thought  of  where  my  self- 
interest  lies  in  the  matter  I  may  tell  you  that  in 
addition  to  the  stocks  which  you  are  to  carry 
for  me  I  intend  to  invest  in  Pearl  Street  com 
mon  to  the  full  extent  of  my  available  cash  re 
sources,  also  on  a  ten-point  margin.  Here  is 
the  best  proof  of  that."  He  hauled  out  his 
certified  check  for  twenty-four  thousand  and 
some  odd  dollars  and  handed  it  over  to  Mr. 
Blake. 

Mr.  Blake  barely  glanced  at  it  and  handed  it 
back,  at  the  same  time  reaching  for  his  desk 
telephone. 

"Mr.  Foxman,"  he  said,  "there  may  be  some 
pain  but  there  is  also  considerable  pleasure  to 
me  in  dealing  with  a  reasonable  man.  I  see 
that  your  mind  is  made  up.  Why  then  should 
we  quibble?  You  win,  Mr.  Foxman — you  win 
[347] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


in  a  walk.  Whatever  opinions  I  may  enter 
tain  as  to  your  private  character  and  whatever 
opinions  you  may  entertain  as  to  my  private 
character,  I  may  at  least  venture  to  congratu 
late  you  upon  your  intelligence.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes, 
while  I  think  of  it,  there  is  one  other  thing,  Mr. 
Foxman :  I  don't  suppose  you  would  care  to  tell 
me  just  how  you  came  into  possession  of  the 
information  contained  in  your  article?" 

"I  would  not." 

"I  thought  as  much.  Excuse  me  one  mo 
ment,  if  you  please."  And  with  that  Mr. 
Blake,  still  wearing  his  poker  face,  joggled  the 
lever  of  the  telephone. 

What  with  certain  negotiations,  privately 
conducted  and  satisfactorily  concluded  at  the 
brokers',  Mr.  Foxman  was  engaged  until  well 
on  into  the  afternoon.  This  being  done,  he 
walked  across  to  the  front  of  the  stock  ex 
change,  where  he  found  a  rank  of  taxis  waiting 
in  line  for  fares  when  the  market  should  close. 
The  long,  lean  months  of  depression  had  passed 
and  the  broker  gentry  did  not  patronise  the  sub 
way  these  days.  Daily  at  three  o'clock,  being 
awearied  by  much  shearing  of  woolly,  fat  sheep, 
they  rode  uptown  in  taxicabs,  utterly  regard 
less  of  mounting  motor  tariffs  and  very  often 
giving  fat  tips  to  their  motor  drivers  besides. 
But  it  is  safe  to  say  no  broker,  however  sure  he 
might  be  of  the  return  of  national  confidence, 
gave  a  fatter  tip  that  day  than  the  one  which 
[348] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

Mr.  Foxman  handed  to  the  taxicab  driver  who 
conveyed  him  to  his  club,  in  the  Upper  Forties. 
Mr.  Foxman  was  in  a  mood  to  be  prodigal  with 
his  small  change. 

Ordinarily  he  would  have  spent  an  hour  or 
two  of  the  afternoon  and  all  of  the  evening  until 
midnight  or  later  at  The  Clarion  office.  But  on 
this  particular  day  he  didn't  go  there  at  all. 
Somehow,  he  felt  those  familiar  surroundings, 
wherein  he  had  worked  his  way  to  the  topmost 
peg  of  authority,  and  incidentally  to  the  confi 
dence  of  his  employer  and  his  staff,  might  be 
to  him  distastefully  reminiscent  of  former  times. 
Mind  you,  he  had  no  shame  for  the  thing  he  had 
done  and  was  doing;  but  instead  had  only  a 
great  and  splendid  exhilaration.  Still,  he  was 
just  as  comfortable  in  his  own  mind,  staying 
away  from  that  office.  It  could  get  along 
without  him  for  this  once.  It  might  as  well  get 
used  to  the  sensation  anyway;  for  very  shortly, 
as  he  figured  the  prospect,  it  would  have  to  get 
along  without  him. 

At  his  club  he  ate  a  belated  luncheon  and  to 
kill  the  time  played  billiards  with  two  other 
men,  playing  with  his  accustomed  skill  and  with 
a  fine  show  of  spirits.  Billiards  killed  the  time 
for  him  until  seven-thirty,  which  exactly  suited 
his  purpose,  because  at  seven-thirty  the  acting 
make-up  editor  should  be  reporting  for  duty 
down  at  The  Clarion  shop. 

Mr.  Foxman  entered  a  sound-proof  booth  in 
the  little  corridor  that  opened  off  the  main- 
[349] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


entry  hall  of  the  club  and,  after  calling  up  the 
night  desk  and  notifying  Sloan  he  would  not 
come  to  the  office  at  all  that  night,  asked  Sloan 
to  send  Hemburg  to  the  telephone. 

"Is  that  you,  Hemburg?"  he  was  saying,  half 
a  minute  later.  "Listen,  Hemburg,  this  is  very 
important:  You  remember  that  story  I  turned 
over  to  you  last  night?  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  the 
same  one — the  story  I  told  you  we  would  run, 
provided  I  could  establish  one  main  point. 
Well,  I  couldn't  establish  that  point — we  can't 
prove  up  on  our  principal  allegation.  That 
makes  it  dangerous  to  have  the  thing  even 
standing  in  type.  So  you  go  upstairs  and  kill 
it — kill  it  yourself  with  your  own  hands,  I 
mean.  I  don't  want  to  take  any  chances  on  a 
slip-up.  Dump  the  type  and  have  it  melted 
up.  And,  Hemburg — say  nothing  to  anyone 
about  either  the  story  itself  or  what  has  hap 
pened  to  it.  Understand  me?  .  .  .  Good.  And, 
Hemburg,  here's  another  thing:  You  recall  the 
other  story  that  I  told  you  was  being  held  for 
release — the  one  on  the  Mexican  situation?  It's 
got  a  Washington  date  line  over  it.  Well, 
shove  it  in  to-night  as  your  leading  news  feature. 
If  we  hold  it  much  longer  it's  liable  to  get  stale 
— the  way  things  are  breaking  down  there  in 
Mexico.  All  right;  good-bye!" 

He  had  rung  off  and  hung  up  and  was  coming 

out  of  the  little  booth  when  a  fresh  inspiration 

came  to  him  and  he  stepped  back  in  again. 

One  factor  remained  to  be  eliminated — Single- 

[350] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

bury.  Until  that  moment  Mr.  Foxman  had 
meant  to  sacrifice  Singlebury  by  the  simple  ex 
pedient  of  sending  him  next  day  on  an  out-of- 
town  assignment — over  into  New  Jersey,  or 
up  into  New  England  perhaps — and  then  firing 
him  by  wire,  out  of  hand,  for  some  alleged 
reportorial  crime,  either  of  omission  or  of  com 
mission.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  cook  up 
the  pretext,  and  from  his  chief's  summary  dis 
missal  of  him  Singlebury  would  have  no  appeal. 
But  suppose  Singlebury  came  back  to  town,  as 
almost  surely  he  would,  and  suppose  he  came 
filled  with  a  natural  indignation  at  having  been 
discharged  in  such  fashion,  and  suppose,  about 
the  same  time,  he  fell  to  wondering  why  his 
great  story  on  the  Pearl  Street  trolley  steal  had 
not  been  printed — certainly  Singlebury  had 
sense  enough  to  put  two  and  two  together — 
and  suppose  on  top  of  that  he  went  gabbling  his 
suspicions  about  among  the  born  gossips  of 
Park  Row?  It  might  be  awkward. 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  jumped  into 
Mr.  Foxman's  mind  as  he  stepped  out  of  the 
booth,  and  in  the  same  instant,  while  he  was 
stepping  back  in  again,  he  had  the  answer  for 
the  puzzle.  Since  he  meant  to  make  a  burnt 
offering  of  Singlebury,  why  not  cook  him  to  a 
cinder  and  be  done  with  it,  and  be  done  with 
Singlebury  too?  A  method  of  doing  this  was 
the  inspiration  that  came  on  the  threshold  of 
the  telephone  booth;  and  when  immediately 
he  undertook  to  put  the  trick  into  effect  he 
[351] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


found  it,  in  its  preliminary  stages,  working  with 
that  same  satisfactory  promise  of  fulfillment 
that  had  marked  all  his  other  undertakings, 
shaping  into  the  main  undertaking. 

For  example,  when  he  called  up  the  Godey 
Arms  Hotel  and  asked  for  Mr.  Singlebury, 
which  was  the  thing  he  next  did,  the  telephone 
operator  of  the  hotel  exchange  told  him  Mr. 
Singlebury  had  gone  out  for  the  evening,  leaving 
word  behind  that  he  would  be  back  at  midnight. 
Now  that  exactly  suited  Mr.  Foxman.  Had 
Singlebury  been  in  he  had  meant,  on  the  pretext 
of  desiring  to  question  him  later  upon  some 
trivial  point  in  the  big  story,  to  have  Single- 
bury  [be  at  some  appointed  telephone  rendezvous 
shortly  after  midnight.  But  he  knew  now 
with  reasonable  certainty  where  Singlebury 
would  be  during  that  hour.  This  knowledge 
simplified  matters  considerably;  it  saved  him 
from  the  bother  of  setting  the  stage  so  elabo 
rately.  Without  giving  his  name  to  the  young 
woman  at  the  hotel  switchboard  he  asked  her  to 
tell  Singlebury,  upon  his  return,  that  a  gentle 
man  would  call  him  up  on  business  of  import 
ance  some  time  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock. 
She  said  she  would  remember  the  message  and, 
thanking  her,  he  rang  off.  Well  content,  he 
went  to  a  theatre  where  a  farce  was  playing, 
sat  through  the  performance  and,  going  back 
again  to  his  club  after  the  performance,  had  a 
late  supper  in  the  grill. 

At  twelve-forty-five  he  finished  his  coffee. 
[352] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

Entering  the  telephone  booth  he  got  first  the 
Godey  Arms  upon  the  wire,  and  then,  after  a 
moment,  the  waiting  and  expectant  Single- 
bury.  In  his  mind  all  evening  Mr.  Foxman 
had  been  carefully  rehearsing  just  what  he 
would  say  and  just  how  he  would  say  it.  Into 
his  voice  he  put  exactly  the  right  strain  of  hur 
ried,  sharp  anxiety  as  he  snapped: 

"Is  that  you,  Singlebury?" 

"Yes,  it's  Singlebury,"  came  back  the  answer. 
"That's  you,  Mr.  Foxman,  isn't  it?  I  rather 
imagined  it  would  be  you  from  what " 

Mr.  Foxman  broke  in  on  him. 

"Singlebury,  there's  hell  to  pay  about  that 
story  you  wrote  for  me.  Somebody  talked — 
there  was  a  leak  somewhere." 

"On  my  word  of  honour,  Mr.  Foxman,"  said 
the  jostled  Singlebury,  "it  wasn't  I.  I  obeyed 
your  orders  to  the  letter  and " 

"I  haven't  time  now  to  try  to  find  out  who 
gabbled,"  snapped  back  Mr.  Foxman;  "there 
are  things  more  important  to  consider.  About 
half -past  seven  to-night — that  was  when  I 
first  tried  to  reach  you  from  down  here  at 
the  office — I  got  wind  that  Blake's  crowd  had 
found  out  about  our  surprise  and  were  get 
ting  busy. .  That  was  what  I'd  been  afraid  of, 
as  I  told  you.  In  the  fear  that  they  might  try 
to  enjoin  us  if  we  held  off  publication  any 
longer  I  gave  orders  to  slam  the  story  into  the 
early-mail  edition  that  went  to  press  twenty 
minutes  ago.  And  now — now  when  the  mis- 
[353  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


chief  is  done — when  thousands  of  papers  are 
already  printed — I  find  out  that  we've  committed 
criminal  libel,  and  the  worst  kind  of  criminal  libel 
— not  against  Blake — we  are  safe  enough  there — 
but  against  Eli  Godfrey,  Senior,  one  of  the  big 
gest  lawyers  in  this  town.  In  your  story  you  ac 
cused  him  of  being  one  of  the  lawyers  who  helped 
to  frame  this  deal.  That's  what  you  did!" 

"  Yes — but — why — but" — stammered  Single- 
bury — "but,  Mr.  Foxman,  Eli  Godfrey,  Senior, 
was  the  man.  He  was — wasn't  he?  All  my 
information  was — 

"It  was  his  son,  Eli  Godfrey,  Junior,  his  part 
ner  in  the  firm,"  declared  Mr.  Foxman,  lying 
beautifully  and  convincingly.  "That's  who  it 
was.  The  father  had  nothing  to  do  with  it; 
the  son  everything.  You  got  the  whole  thing 
twisted.  I've  snatched  the  forms  back  and  I'm 
throwing  the  story  out  of  the  second  edition  and 
filling  the  hole  with  a  Washington  story  that  we 
happened  to  have  handy.  So  your  story  prob 
ably  won't  be  in  the  edition  that  you  will  see. 
But  that  doesn't  help  much — if  any.  We've 
kept  the  libel  out  of  our  local  circulation,  but 
it's  already  in  the  early  mails  and  we  can't 
catch  up  with  it  or  stop  it  there.  It's  too  late 
to  save  us  or  to  save  you." 

"To  save  me?" 

"That's   what   I   said.     I   guess   you   don't 

know  what  the  laws  against  criminal  libel  in 

this  state  are?     The  Clarion  will  be  sued  to  the 

limit,  that's  sure.     But,  as  the  man  who  wrote 

[  354  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


the  story,  you  can  be  sent  to  the  penitentiary 
under  a  criminal  prosecution  for  criminal  libel. 
Do  you  understand — to  the  penitentiary?  I'm 
liable,  too,  in  a  way  of  course — anybody  who 
had  anything  to  do  with  uttering  or  circulating 
the  false  statement  is  liable.  But  you  are  in 
worse  than  the  rest  of  us." 

In  his  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  panic 
gripped  poor  Singlebury.  With  a  feeling  that 
the  earth  had  suddenly  slumped  away  from 
under  his  feet  he  clung  desperately  to  the  tele 
phone  instrument.  He  had  accepted  this  ter 
rifically  startling  disclosure  unquestioningly. 
Why  should  he  question  it? 

"But  if — if  there  was  no  malice — if  the  mis 
take  was  made  innocently  and  in  igno 
rance "  he  babbled. 

In  his  place  in  the  club  telephone  booth  Mr. 
Foxman,  interpreting  the  note  of  fright  in  the 
reporter's  voice,  grinned  to  himself.  Single- 
bury,  it  was  plain,  didn't  know  anything  about 
libel  law.  And  Singlebury,  it  was  equally 
plain,  was  accepting  without  question  or  analy 
sis  all  that  he  was  hearing. 

"Lack  of  malice  doesn't  excuse  in  this  state!" 
Mr.  Foxman  said,  speaking  with  grim  menace; 
"you  haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on.  There'll  be 
warrants  out  before  breakfast  time  in  the  morn 
ing;  and  by  noon  you'll  be  in  a  jail  cell  unless 
you  get  out  of  this  town  to-night  before  they 
find  out  the  name  of  the  man  who  wrote  this 

story.  Have  you  got  any  money?" 

[  355  ] 


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"I've — I've  got  some  money,"  answered 
Singlebury,  shaping  the  words  with  difficulty. 
"But,  Mr.  Foxman,  if  I'm  responsible  I  can 
face  the  consequences.  I'm  willing  to — 

"Singlebury,  I'm  telling  you  that  you  haven't 
a  chance.  I  sent  you  out  on  this  story — that 
was  my  mistake — and  you  got  your  facts 
twisted — that  was  your  mistake.  Even  so,  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  suffer.  I  tell  you  you 
haven't  a  show  if  you  stay  in  this  state  ten 
hours  longer.  You'll  wear  stripes.  I'm  warn 
ing  you — giving  you  this  chance  to  get  away 
while  there's  still  time — because  you're  a  young 
man,  a  stranger  in  this  community,  with  no 
influence  to  help  you  outside  of  what  The 
Clarion  could  give  you,  and  that  would  be 
mighty  little.  The  Clarion  will  be  in  bad 
enough  itself.  The  man  who  owns  this  paper 
would  sacrifice  you  in  a  minute  to  save  himself 
or  his  paper.  :He  can't  afford  to  throw  me  to 
the  lions,  but  with  you  it's  different.  If  you 
beat  it  he  may  make  a  scapegoat  of  you,  but 
it'll  be  at  long  distance  where  it  won't  hurt  you 
much.  If  you  stay  you'll  be  a  scapegoat  just 
the  same — and  you'll  serve  time  besides.  Be 
cause  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  you  I'm 
offering  you  a  chance  by  giving  you  this 
warning." 

"I'll  go  then — I'll  go  right  away,  I'll  do  as 
you  say,  sir.  What — what  would  you  sug 
gest?" 

"If  I  were  you  I'd  catch  a  ferry  for  the  Jersey 
[356] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


shore  before  daylight — they  run  all  night,  the 
ferries  do.  And  as  soon  as  I  landed  on  the 
Jersey  shore  I'd  catch  a  train  for  the  West  or 
the  South  or  somewhere  and  I'd  stay  on  it  till  it 
stopped,  no  matter  how  far  it  took  me — the 
farther  from  this  town  the  better.  And  for  the 
time  being  I'd  change  my  name — that's  my 
parting  confidential  advice  to  you.  Good-bye. 
I've  wasted  more  time  already  than  I  can 
spare."  And  having,  as  he  figured,  chosen  the 
proper  moment  for  ringing  off,  Mr.  Foxman 
accordingly  rang  off. 

But  he  made  sure  of  the  last  detail — this  cal 
culating,  foreseeing,  prudent  man.  It  was  less 
than  six  blocks  from  his  club  to  Singlebury's 
hotel.  He  drove  the  distance  as  speedily  as  a 
motor  could  carry  him  and,  halting  the  taxi  he 
had  hired  in  the  quiet  street  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  roadway,  he,  hidden  in  its  interior, 
sat  waiting  and  watching  through  the  cab  win 
dow;  until,  a  little  later,  he  saw  Singlebury 
issue  from  the  doorway  of  the  Godey  Arms, 
carrying  a  valise  in  his  hand,  saw  him  climb  into 
a  hansom  cab  and  saw  him  drive  away,  heading 
westward. 

By  Mr.  Foxman's  directions  his  own  cab 
trailed  the  cab  bearing  the  other  right  to  the 
ferry.  Not  until  his  eyes  had  followed  the 
diminishing  figure  of  the  reporter  while  it  van 
ished  into  the  ferry  house  did  he  give  orders  to 
his  driver  to  take  him  home  to  his  apartment. 
Seasoned  and  veteran  nighthawk  of  the  Tender- 
1357] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

loin  that  he  was,  the  driver  concerned  himself 
not  a  bit  with  the  peculiar  conduct  of  any  pas 
senger  of  his.  He  did  simply  as  he  was  told. 
If  he  was  paid  his  legal  fare  and  a  sufficient  tip 
besides,  he  could  forget  anything  that  hap 
pened  while  he  and  his  chariot  were  under 
charter.  For  a  sufficiently  attractive  bonus  he 
would  have  winked  at  manslaughter.  That 
was  his  code. 

Being  deposited  at  his  home  shortly  before 
three  A.  M.,  Mr.  Foxman  became  aware  of  a  let 
down  sensation.  With  the  strain  relieved  he 
felt  the  after-effects  of  the  strain.  He  was 
sleepy  and  he  was  very  tired;  likewise  very 
happy.  Not  a  slip  had  occurred  anywhere. 
Blake  had  been  tractable  and  Singlebury  had 
been  credulous,  and  Hemburg,  of  course,  had 
been  obedient.  The  story  would  never  see  day 
light,  the  big  merger  would  be  announced  ac 
cording  to  schedule,  and  Pearl  Street  common 
would  go  kiting  up  thirty  or  forty,  or  maybe 
fifty  points.  And  he  was  loaded  to  the  gun 
wales  with  the  stock — bought  at  nineteen  and 
three-quarters.  For  obvious  reasons  Blake 
would  keep  his  mouth  shut;  for  other  reasons, 
just  as  good,  Pratt,  Bogardus  and  Murtha 
would  keep  their  mouths  closed  too.  They 
might,  in  private,  indulge  in  a  spell  of  wonder 
ment,  but  they  would  do  their  wondering  where 
no  outsider  overheard  it — that  was  sure. 

Hemburg,  who  travelled  in  an  alcoholic  maze 
anyhow,  doing  as  he  was  told  and  asking  no 
[  358  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

questions,  would  not  be  apt  to  talk.  Why 
should  he  talk?  Moreover,  upon  some  plausi 
ble  excuse  Mr.  Foxman  meant  that  Hemburg 
and  The  Clarion  should  shortly  part  company. 
General  Lignum,  happily,  would  be  absent 
from  the  country  for  at  least  a  month  and  pos 
sibly  for  six  weeks.  If  by  the  time  he  returned 
he  hadn't  forgotten  all  about  the  East  Side 
traction  business  it  would  be  easy  enough  to 
make  him  forget  about  it.  Pulling  wool  over 
Lignum's  eyes  should  be  the  easiest  of  jobs. 
Lignum  would  be  having  his  political  ambitions 
to  think  about;  one  beat  more  or  less  would 
mean  nothing  to  Lignum,  who  had  no  journal 
istic  instincts  or  training  anyway. 

As  for  Singlebury — well,  the  coup  by  which 
that  young  man  had  been  disposed  of  was  the 
smartest  trick  of  them  all,  so  Mr.  Foxman  told 
himself.  Every  avenue  leading  to  possible 
detection  was  closed  up,  blocked  off  and  sealed 
shut.  In  any  event  he,  Hobart  Foxman,  was 
bound  to  make  his  pile;  it  was  highly  probable 
that  there  would  be  no  price  to  pay  in  the  sub 
sequent  loss  of  Hobart  Foxman's  professional 
reputation.  He  had  been  prepared,  if  need  be, 
to  surrender  his  good  name  in  exchange  for  a 
fortune,  but  if  he  might  have  both — the  name 
and  the  fortune — so  much  the  better  for  Ho 
bart  Foxman. 

He  hummed  a  cheerful  little  tune  as  he  un 
dressed  himself  and  got  into  bed.  There  he 
slept  like  a  dead  man  until  the  long  hand  of  the 


LOCAL      COLOR 


clock  had  circled  the  clock  face  a  good  many 
times. 

It  was  getting  along  toward  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  forenoon  and  the  summer  sunlight,  slipping 
through  chinks  in  the  curtains  at  the  windows 
of  his  bedroom,  had  patterned  the  bed  covers 
with  yellow  stencilings  when  Mr.  Foxman 
awoke.  For  a  spell  he  yawned  and  stretched. 
Then,  in  his  slippers  and  his  dressing  gown,  he 
went  through  the  hall  to  the  dining  room  to  tell 
the  maid  out  in  the  kitchen  she  might  serve  him 
his  breakfast.  According  to  the  rule  of  the 
household  copies  of  all  the  morning  papers  were 
lying  at  his  place  on  the  dining  table.  There 
was  quite  a  sizable  heap  of  them.  The  Clarion, 
folded  across,  made  the  topmost  layer  of  the 
pile.  Governed  more  by  a  habit  of  long 
standing  than  by  any  active  desire  to  see 
what  it  contained,  he  picked  it  up  and  opened 
it  out. 

Out  in  the  kitchen  the  maid  heard  some  one 
in  the  dining  room  give  a  queer  strangled  cry. 
She  came  running.  Her  master  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  with  an  opened  newspaper 
in  his  two  shaking  hands.  He  didn't  seem  to 
see  her,  didn't  seem  to  hear  the  astonished  bleat 
which  promptly  she  uttered;  but  above  the  rim 
of  the  printed  sheet  she  saw  his  face.  She  saw 
it  in  the  first  instant  of  entering,  and  for  sun 
dry  succeeding  seconds  saw  nothing  else.  It 
was  a  face  as  white  as  so  much  chalk,  and  set 
[360] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


in  it  a  pair  of  eyes  that  popped  from  their 
sockets  and  glared  like  two  shiny,  white-ringed, 
agate  marbles,  and  at  its  lower  end  a  jaw  that 
lolled  down  until  it  threatened  self -dislocation. 
The  maid  figured  Mr.  Foxman  had  been  ren 
dered  suddenly  and  seriously  unwell  by  some 
thing  shocking  he  had  found  in  the  paper. 

Therein  she  was  right;  it  was  a  true  diag 
nosis  if  ever  there  was  one.  Mr.  Foxman  had 
been  suddenly  and  sorely  stricken  in  the  midst 
of  health  and  contentment;  Mr.  Foxman  was 
now  seriously  unwell,  both  physically  and  as  to 
the  state  of  his  nervous  system. 

Indeed  the  gentleman  was  in  even  more  de 
plorable  case  than  the  foregoing  words  would 
indicate.  Mr.  Foxman  was  the  engineer  who 
is  hoisted  by  his  own  petard.  He  was  the 
hunter  who  falls  into  the  pitfall  he  himself  has 
digged,  who  is  impaled  on  the  stake  he  himself 
has  planted.  He  was  the  hangman  who  chokes 
in  the  noose  he  wove  for  other  victims.  In 
short,  Mr.  Foxman  was  whatever  best  de 
scribes,  by  simile  and  comparison,  the  creature 
which  unexpectedly  is  wrecked  and  ruined  by 
contrivances  of  its  own  devisement. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  page  of  The  Clarion, 
smeared  across  three  columns  in  letters  which, 
to  Mr.  Foxman's  petrified  gaze,  seemed  cubits 
high,  ran  a  certain  well-remembered  scare  head, 
and  under  that,  in  two-column  measure,  a  box 
of  black-faced  type,  and  under  that,  with  its 
accusations  bristling  out  from  the  body  matter 
[361] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


like  naked  lance  tips,  followed  the  story  which 
told  of  the  proposed  Pearl  Street  trolley  grab 
and  the  proposed  East  Side  merger  steal. 

All  of  it  was  there,  every  word  of  it,  from 
the  crackling  first  paragraph  to  the  stinging 
wasp  tail  of  the  last  sentence! 

The  telephone  has  played  a  considerable  part 
in  this  recital.  It  is  to  play  still  one  more  part 
and  then  we  are  done  with  telephones. 

Mr.  Foxman  regained  the  faculty  of  consecu 
tive  thought — presently  he  did.  He  ran  to  the 
telephone,  and  after  a  little  time  during  which 
he  wildly  blasphemed  at  the  delay  he  secured 
connection  with  the  office  of  the  firm  of  brokers 
who  carried  the  account  of  Mr.  X. 

It  was  too  late  to  save  anything  from  the 
wreckage;  the  hour  for  salvaging  had  gone  by. 
A  clerk's  voice,  over  the  wire,  conveyed  back 
the  melancholy  tidings.  A  bomb  had  burst  in 
Wall  Street  that  morning.  The  East  Side 
merger  scheme  had  been  blown  into  smithereens 
by  a  sensational  story  appearing  in  The  Clarion, 
and  the  fragments  still  were  falling  in  a  clatter 
ing  shower  on  the  floor  of  the  stock  exchange. 
As  for  Pearl  Street  trolley  common,  that  had 
gone  clear  through  to  the  basement.  The  last 
quotation  on  this  forsaken  stock  had  been  seven 
and  a  half  asked,  and  nothing  at  all  offered. 

The  account  of  Mr.  X,  therefore,  was  an  ac 
count  no  longer;  it  was  off  the  books.  Mr. 
X's  ten-point  margin  having  been  exhausted, 
Mr.  X  had  been  closed  out,  and  to  all  intents 
[362] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 

and  purposes  neither  he  nor  his  account  any 
longer  existed. 

Mr.  Foxman's  indisposition  increased  in  the  in 
tensity  of  its  visible  symptoms  until  the  alarmed 
maid,  standing  helplessly  by,  decided  that  Mr. 
Foxman  was  about  to  have  a  stroke  of  some 
sort.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  already  had 
it — two  strokes  really,  both  of  them  severe  ones. 

We  go  back  a  little  now — to  the  evening  be 
fore.  We  go  back  to  the  alcoholic  Hemburg, 
trying  to  make  good  in  his  ad-interim  eminence 
as  acting  make-up  editor  and,  in  pursuance  of 
this  ambition,  riding  for  the  time  being  upon 
the  water  wagon,  with  every  personal  intention 
of  continuing  so  to  ride  during  all  time  to  come. 

When  he  came  on  duty  shortly  after  seven 
o'clock  every  famished,  tortured  fibre  in  him 
was  calling  out  for  whiskey.  His  thirst  was 
riding  him  like  an  Old  Man  of  the  Seas.  He 
sweated  cold  drops  in  his  misery  and,  to  bolster 
his  resolution,  called  up  every  shred  of  moral 
strength  that  remained  to  him.  Inside  him  a 
weakened  will  fought  with  an  outraged  appetite, 
and  his  jangled  nerves  bore  the  stress  of  this 
struggle  between  determination  and  a  frightful 
craving. 

In  this  state  then,  with  his  brain  cells  divided 
in  their  allegiance  to  him  and  his  rebellious 
body  in  a  tremor  of  torment,  he  was  called 
upon  very  soon  after  his  arrival  at  the  office  to 
carry  out  an  important  commission  for  the 
[363] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


man  who  had  bestowed  upon  him  his  tempo 
rary  promotion.  Taking  the  command  over  the 
wire,  he  hurried  upstairs  to  execute  it. 

Had  he  been  comparatively  drunk  it  is  cer 
tain  that  Hemburg  would  have  made  no  slip; 
automatically  his  fuddled  mind  would  have 
governed  his  hand  to  mechanical  obedience  of 
the  direction.  But  being  comparatively  sober 
— as  sober  as  nearly  twenty-four  hours  of  ab 
stinence  could  make  him — poor  Hemburg  was 
in  a  swirl  of  mental  confusion.  At  that,  out- 
mastered  as  he  was,  he  made  only  one  mistake. 

There  were  two  stories  lying  in  type,  side  by 
side,  on  the  stone.  One  of  them  was  to  be 
played  up  in  the  leading  position  in  the  make 
up.  The  other  was  to  be  dumped  hi  the  hell- 
box.  That  was  the  order,  plain  enough  in  his 
own  mind.  So  one  of  them  he  dumped,  and  the 
other  one  he  put  in  the  forms  to  be  printed. 

The  mistake  he  made  was  this:  He  dumped 
the  wrong  one  and  he  ran  the  wrong  one.  He 
dumped  the  long  Washington  dispatch  into  a 
heap  of  metal  linotype  strips,  fit  only  to  be 
melted  back  again  into  leaden  bars,  and  he  ran 
the  Singlebury  masterpiece.  That's  what  Hem 
burg  did — that's  all. 

Well  then,  these  things  resulted:  Mrs.  Fox- 
man  lost  her  ten-thousand-dollar  legacy  and 
never  thereafter  forgave  her  husband  for  fritter 
ing  away  the  inheritance  in  what  she  deemed 
to  have  been  a  mad  fit  of  witless  speculation. 
[  364,  ] 


ENTER     THE      VILLAIN 


Even  though  his  money  had  gone  with  hers  she 
never  forgave  him. 

Mr.  Foxman,  having  sold  his  birthright  of 
probity  and  honour  and  self-respect  for  as  bitter 
and  disappointing  a  mess  of  pottage  as  ever 
mortal  man  had  to  swallow,  nevertheless  went 
undetected  in  his  crookedness  and  continued 
to  hold  his  job  as  managing  editor  of  The 
Clarion. 

General  Robert  Bruce  Lignum,  a  perfectly 
innocent  and  well-meaning  victim,  was  de 
cisively  beaten  in  his  race  for  the  United  States 
senatorship.  Mr.  Blake  saw  to  that  personally — 
Mr.  John  W.  Blake,  who  figured  that  in  some 
way  he  had  been  double-crossed  and  who,  having 
in  silence  nursed  his  grudge  to  keep  it  warm, 
presently  took  his  revenge  upon  Foxman's 
employer,  since  he  saw  no  way,  in  view  of 
everything,  of  hurting  Foxman  without  further 
exposing  himself.  Also,  to  save  himself  and  his 
associates  from  the  possibility  of  travelling  to 
state's  prison,  Mr.  Blake  found  it  incumbent 
upon  him  to  use  some  small  part  of  his  tainted 
fortune  in  corrupting  a  district  attorney,  who 
up  until  then  had  been  an  honourable  man  with 
a  future  before  him  of  honourable  preferment 
in  the  public  service.  So,  though  there  were 
indictments  in  response  to  public  clamour,  there 
were  no  prosecutions,  and  the  guilty  ones  went 
unwhipped  of  justice.  And  after  a  while,  when 
the  popular  indignation  engendered  by  The 
Clarion's  disclosure  had  entirely  abated,  and 
[365] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

the  story  was  an  old  story,  and  the  law's  con 
venient  delays  had  been  sufficiently  invoked, 
and  a  considerable  assortment  of  greedy  palms 
at  Albany  and  elsewhere  had  been  crossed  with 
dirty  dollars,  the  East  Side  merger,  in  a  differ 
ent  form  and  with  a  different  set  of  dummy 
directors  behind  it,  was  successfully  put  through, 
substantially  as  per  former  programme.  But 
by  that  time  the  original  holders  of  Pearl  Street 
trolley  stocks  had  all  been  frozen  out  and  had 
nothing  to  show  for  their  pains  and  their  money, 
except  heart  pangs  and  an  empty  bag  to  hold. 

Bogardus,  the  lobbyist,  and  old  Pratt,  the 
class  leader,  and  Lawyer  Murtha,  the  two- 
faced — not  one  of  whom,  judged  by  the  com 
mon  standards  of  honest  folk,  had  been  actu 
ated  by  clean  motives — enjoyed  their  little 
laugh  at  Blake's  passing  discomfiture,  but  after 
ward,  as  I  recall,  they  patched  up  their  quarrels 
with  him  and  each,  in  his  own  special  field  of 
endeavour,  basked  once  more  in  the  golden  sun 
shine  of  then1  patron's  favour,  waxing  fat  on  the 
crumbs  which  dropped  from  the  greater  man's 
table. 

Hemburg's  reward  for  striving,  however 
feebly,  to  cure  himself  of  the  curse  of  liquor 
was  that  promptly  he  lost  his  place  on  The 
Clarion's  staff — Mr.  Foxman  personally  at 
tended  to  that  detail — and  because  of  his  habits 
could  not  get  a  job  on  any  other  paper  and 
became  a  borrower  of  quarters  along  Park 

Row. 

[366] 


ENTER     THE     VILLAIN 


Singlebury,  who  did  a  good  reporter's  job  and 
wrote  a  great  story,  was  never  to  have  the  small 
consolation  of  knowing  that  after  all  he  had  not 
committed  criminal  libel,  nor  that  he  had  not 
got  his  names  or  his  facts  twisted,  nor  even 
that  his  story  did  appear  in  The  Clarion. 
Without  stopping  long  enough  even  to  buy  a 
copy  of  the  paper,  he  ran  away,  a  fugitive,  dread 
ing  the  fear  of  arrest  that  had  been  conjured  up 
in  another's  imagination  and  craftily  grafted 
upon  his  beguiled  intelligence.  And  he  never 
stopped  running,  either,  until  he  was  in  Denver, 
Colorado,  where  he  had  to  make  a  fresh  start 
all  over  again.  While  he  was  making  it  the  girl 
in  San  Jose,  California,  got  tired  of  waiting  for 
him  and  broke  off  the  engagement  and  married 
someone  else. 

What  is  the  moral  of  it  all? 

You  can  search  me. 


[367] 


CHAPTER  IX 
PERSONA   AU    GRATIN 


TO  EVERY  town,  whether  great  or  un- 
great,  appertain  and  do  therefore  be 
long  certain  individualistic  beings.  In 
the  big  town  they  are  more  or  less  lost, 
perhaps.  In  the  smaller  town  they  are  readily 
to  be  found  and  as  readily  to  be  recognised. 
There  is,  for  example,  the  man  who,  be  the 
weather  what  it  may  and  frequently  is,  never 
wears  underwear,  yet  continues  ever  to  enjoy 
health  so  robust  as  to  constitute  him,  especially 
in  winter  time,  a  living  reproach  to  all  his  fleece- 
lined  fellow  citizens.  There  is  the  man  who 
hangs  round  somebody's  livery  stable,  being 
without  other  visible  means  of  support,  and 
makes  a  specialty  of  diagnosing  the  diseases  of 
the  horse  and  trimming  up  fox  terrier  pups,  as 
regards  their  ears  and  tails.  Among  the  neigh 
bouring  youth,  who  yield  him  a  fearsome  vener 
ation,  a  belief  exists  to  the  effect  that  he  never 
removes  the  tails  with  an  edged  tool  but  just 
takes  and  bites  them  off.  There  is  the  man 
[368] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


who,  because  his  mother  or  his  wife  or  his  sister 
takes  in  sewing,  has  a  good  deal  of  spare  time 
on  his  hands  and  devotes  it  to  carving  with 
an  ordinary  pocketknife — he'll  show  you  the 
knife — a  four-foot  chain,  complete  with  solid 
links  and  practical  swivel  ornaments,  out  of  a 
single  block  of  soft  pine,  often  achieving  the  even 
more  miraculous  accomplishment  of  creating  a 
full-rigged  ship  inside  of  a  narrow-mouthed 
bottle. 

There  is  the  man  who  goes  about  publicly 
vainglorious  of  his  ownership  of  the  finest  gold- 
embossed  shaving  mug  in  the  leading  barber 
shop.  There  is  the  man — his  name  is  apt  to  be 
A.  J.  Abbott  or  else  August  Ackerman — who 
invariably  refers  to  himself  as  the  first  citizen 
of  the  place,  and  then,  to  make  good  his  joke, 
shows  the  stranger  where  in  the  city  directory 
he,  like  Abou  ben  Adhem — who,  since  I  come 
to  think  about  it,  was  similarly  gifted  in  the 
matter  of  initials — leads  all  the  rest.  There  is 
the  town  drunkard,  the  town  profligate,  the 
town  beau,  the  town  comedian.  And  finally, 
but  by  no  means  least,  there  is  the  man  who 
knows  baseball  from  A,  which  is  Chadwick,  to 
Z,  which  is  Weeghman.  These  others — the 
champion  whittler,  the  dog-biter,  and  the  whole 
list  of  them — are  what  you  might  call  peren 
nials,  but  he  is  a  hardy  annual,  blossoming  forth 
hi  the  spring  when  the  season  opens  and  His 
Honour,  the  Mayor,  throws  out  the  first  ball,  at- 
taining  to  full-petalled  effulgence  along  toward 
1369] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


midsummer,  as  the  fight  for  the  flag  narrows, 
growing  fluffy  in  the  pod  at  the  seedtime  of  the 
World's  Series  in  October,  and  through  the  long 
winter  hibernating  beneath  a  rich  mulch  of 
Spaulding's  guides  and  sporting  annuals. 

The  thriving  city  of  Anneburg,  situate  some 
distance  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  Line  at  the 
point  where  the  Tobacco  Belt  and  the  Cotton 
Belt,  fusing  imperceptibly  together,  mingle  the 
nitrogenous  weed  and  the  boiled  staple  in  the 
same  patchwork  strip  of  fertile  loam  lands,  was 
large  enough  to  enjoy  a  Carnegie  library,  a 
municipal  graft  scandal,  and  a  reunion  of  the 
Confederate  Veterans'  Association  about  once 
in  so  often,  and  small  enough  to  have  and  to 
hold — and  to  value — at  least  one  characteristic 
example  of  each  of  the  types  just  enumerated. 
But  especially  did  it  excel  in  its  exclusive  pos 
session  of  J.  Henry  Birdseye. 

This  Mr.  Birdseye,  be  it  said,  was  hardly  less 
widely  known  than  a  certain  former  governor 
of  the  state,  who  as  the  leading  citizen  of  Anne- 
burg  took  a  distinguished  part  in  all  civic  and 
communal  movements.  Yet  the  man  was  not 
wealthy  or  eloquent;  neither  was  he  learned  in 
the  law  nor  gifted  with  the  pen.  His  gainful 
pursuit  was  that  of  being  a  commercial  traveller. 
His  business  of  livelihood  was  to  sell  Good  Old 
Mother  Menifee's  Infallible  Chill  Cure  through 
nine  adjacent  counties  of  the  midcontinental 
malaria  zone.  But  his  principal  profession  was 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


the  profession  of  baseball.  In  his  mind  G.  O.  P. 
stood  for  Grand  Occidental  Pastime,  and  he 
always  thought  of  it  as  spelled  with  capital  let 
ters.  He  knew  the  national  game  as  a  mother 
knows  the  colour  of  her  first-born's  eyes.  He 
yearned  for  it  in  the  off-season  interim  as  a 
drunkard  for  his  bottle.  Offhand  he  could  tell 
you  the  exact  weight  of  the  bat  wielded  by  Ed 
Delehanty  in  1899  when  Ed  hit  408;  or  what 
Big  Dan  Brouthers'  average  was  in  Big  Dan's 
best  year;  or  where  Cap.  Anson  was  born  and 
how  he  first  broke  into  fast  company,  and  all 
the  lesser  circumstances  connected  with  that 
paramount  event.  His  was  the  signature  that 
headed  the  subscription  list  which  each  Feb 
ruary  secured  for  Anneburg  a  membership  fran 
chise  in  a  Class  C  League,  and  he  the  sincerest 
mourner  when  the  circuit  uniformly  blew  up  with 
a  low,  penniless  thud  toward  the  Fourth  of  July. 

He  glanced  at  the  headlines  of  the  various 
metropolitan  papers  for  which  he  subscribed; 
that  was  because,  as  a  patriotic  and  public- 
spirited  American,  he  deemed  it  to  be  his  duty 
to  keep  abreast  of  war,  crimes,  markets,  politics, 
and  the  other  live  issues  of  the  day;  but  what 
he  really  read  was  the  sporting  department, 
reading  it  from  the  vignette  of  its  chief  editor, 
displayed  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner,  to  the 
sweepings  of  minute  diamond  dust  accumulated 
in  the  lower  right-hand  corner. 

In  short,  J.  Henry  Birdseye  was  a  fan  in  all 
that  the  word  implies.  In  a  grist  mill,  now,  a 
[371] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


fan  means  something  which  winnows  out  the 
chaff  from  the  grain.  In  the  Orient  a  fan 
means  a  plane-surface  of  coloured  paper,  bear 
ing  a  picture  of  a  snow-capped  mountain,  and 
having  also  a  bamboo  handle,  and  a  tendency  to 
come  unravelled  round  the  edges.  But  when 
anywhere  in  these  United  States  you  speak  of  a 
fan,  be  you  a  Harlem  cliff-swallow  or  a  Bang- 
town  jay,  you  mean  such  a  one  as  J.  Henry 
Birdseye.  You  know  him,  I  know  him,  every 
body  knows  him.  So  much  being  conceded,  we 
get  down  to  our  knitting. 

Springtime  had  come:  'twas  early  April.  The 
robin,  which  is  a  harbinger  in  the  North  and  a 
potpie  in  the  South,  had  winged  his  way  from 
Gulfport,  Mississippi,  to  Central  Park,  New 
York,  and,  stepping  stiffly  on  his  frost-bitten 
toes,  was  regretting  he  had  been  in  such  a  hurry 
about  it.  Palm  Beach  being  through  and  New 
port  not  yet  begun,  the  idle  rich  were  discon 
solately  reflecting  that  for  them  there  was  no 
where  to  go  except  home.  That  Anglopho- 
biac  of  the  feathered  kingdom,  the  English 
snipe,  bid  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  Old  South 
ern  angleworms  whose  hospitality  he  had  en 
joyed  all  winter,  and  headed  for  Upper  Quebec, 
intent  now  on  family  duties.  And  one  morning 
Mr.  Birdseye  picked  up  the  Anneburg  Press 
Intelligencer,  and  read  that  on  their  homebound 
journey  from  the  spring  training  camp  the 
Moguls,  league  champions  four  times  hand- 
running  and  World's  Champions  every  once  in  a 
[372] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 

while,  were  by  special  arrangement  to  stop  off 
for  half  a  day  in  Anneburg  and  play  an  exhibi 
tion  game  with  the  Anneburg  team  of  the 
K-A-T  League. 

Nor  was  it  the  second-string  outfit  of  the 
Moguls  that  would  come.  That  band  of  cal 
low  and  diffident  rookies  would  travel  north 
over  another  route,  its  members  earning  their 
keep  by  playing  match  games  as  they  went. 
No,  Anneburg,  favoured  among  the  haunts  of 
men,  was  to  be  honoured  with  the  actual  pres 
ence  of  the  regulars,  peerlessly  captained  by 
that  short  and  wily  premier  of  all  baseball  pre 
miers,  so  young  in  years  yet  so  old  in  wisdom, 
Swifty  Megrue;  and  bearing  with  him  in  its 
train  such  deathless  fixtures  of  the  Temple  of 
Fame  as  Long  Leaf  Pinderson,  the  Greatest 
Living  Pitcher,  he  who,  though  barely  out  of 
his  teens,  already  had  made  spitball  a  cherished 
household  word  in  every  American  home;  Mag 
nus,  that  noble  Indian,  catcher  by  trade,  a  red 
chief  tain  hi  his  own  right;  Gigs  McGuire, 
mightiest  among  keystone  bagsmen  and  wor 
shipped  the  hemisphere  over  as  the  most  emi 
nent  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  cultured 
umpire-baiter  a  dazzled  planet  ever  beheld; 
Flying  Jenny  Schuster,  batsman  extraordinary, 
likewise  base-stealer  without  a  peer;  Albino 
Magoon,  the  Circassian  Beauty  of  the  outfield, 
especially  to  be  loved  and  revered  because  a 
product  of  the  Sunny  Southland;  Sauer  and 
Krautman,  better  known  as  the  Dutch  Lunch 
[373] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

battery;  little  Lew  Hull,  who  could  play  any 
position  between  sungarden  and  homeplate; 
Salmon,  a  veritable  walloping  window-blind 
with  the  stick;  Jordan,  who  pitched  on  occa 
sion,  employing  a  gifted  southpaw  exclusively 
therefor;  Rube  Gracey;  Streaky  Flynn,  al 
ways  there  with  the  old  noodle  and  fast  enough 
on  his  feet  to  be  sure  of  a  fixed  assignment  on 
almost  any  other  team,  but  carried  in  this  un 
paralleled  aggregation  of  stars  as  a  utility 
player;  Andrew  Jackson  Harkness;  Canuck 
LaFarge,  and  others' yet  besides.  These  masto 
dons  among  men  would  flash  across  the  pal 
pitant  Anneburg  horizon  like  a  troupe  of  com 
panion  comets,  would  tarry  just  long  enough  to 
mop  up  the  porous  soil  of  Bragg  County  with 
the  best  defensive  the  K-A-T  had  to  offer,  and 
then  at  eventide  would  resume  their  journey  to 
where,  on  the  vast  home  grounds,  new  glories 
and  fresh  triumphs  awaited  them. 

No  such  honour  had  ever  come  to  Anneburg 
before;  and  as  Mr.  Birdseye,  with  quickened 
pulse,  read  and  then  reread  the  delectable  tid 
ings,  forgetting  all  else  of  lesser  import  which 
the  Press  Intelligencer  might  contain,  a  splen 
did  inspiration  sprang  full-grown  into  his  brain, 
and  in  that  moment  he  resolved  that  her,  Anne- 
burg's,  honour  should  be  his,  J.  Henry  Birds- 
eye's,  opportunity.  Opportunity,  despite  a 
current  impression,  does  not  knock  once  at 
every  man's  door.  Belief  in  the  proverb  to  that 
effect  has  spelled  many  a  man's  undoing.  He 
[374] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 

has  besat  him  indoors  awaiting  the  sound  of  her 
knuckles  upon  the  panels  when  he  should  have 
been  ranging  afield  with  his  eye  peeled.  As  a 
seasoned  travelling  man  Mr.  Birdseye  knew 
opportunity  for  what  she  is — a  coy  bird  and 
hard  to  find — and  knew  that  to  get  her  you 
must  go  gunning  for  her.  But  he  figured  he 
had  the  proper  ammunition  in  stock  to  bring 
down  the  quarry  this  time — the  suitable  salt  to 
put  on  her  tail.  Of  that  also  he  felt  most 
certain-sure. 

The  resolution  took  definite  form  and  hard 
ened.  Details,  ways  and  means,  probable  con 
tingencies  and  possible  emergencies — all  these 
had  been  mapped  and  platted  upon  the  blue 
prints  of  the  thinker's  mind  before  he  laid  aside 
the  paper.  To  but  one  man — and  he  only  un 
der  the  pledge  of  a  secrecy  almost  Masonic  in 
its  power  to  bind — did  Mr.  Birdseye  confide  the 
completed  plan  of  his  campaign.  That  man 
was  a  neighbour  of  the  Birdseyes,  a  Mr.  Fluel- 
len,  more  commonly  known  among  friends  as 
Pink  Egg  Fluellen.  The  gentleman  did  not 
owe  his  rather  startling  titular  adornment  to 
any  idiosyncrasy  of  complexion  or  of  physical 
aspect.  He  went  through  life  an  animate  sac 
rifice  to  a  mother's  pride.  Because  in  her  veins 
coursed  the  blood  of  two  old  South  Carolina 
families,  the  Pinckneys  and  the  Eggners,  the 
misguided  woman  had  seen  fit  to  have  the  child 
christened  Pinckney  Eggner.  Under  the  very 
lip  of  the  baptismal  font  the  nickname  then  was 
[375] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


born,  and  through  all  the  days  of  his  fleshy  em 
bodiment  it  walked  with  him.  As  a  boy,  boy- 
like,  he  had  fought  against  it;  as  a  man,  chas 
tened  by  the  experience  of  maturity,  he  had 
ceased  to  rebel.  Now,  as  the  head  of  a  family, 
he  heard  it  without  flinching. 

On  his  way  downtown  after  breakfast,  Mr. 
Birdseye  met  Mr.  Fluellen  coming  out  of  his 
gate  bound  in  the  same  direction.  As  they 
walked  along  together  Mr.  Birdseye  told  Mr. 
Fluellen  all,  first,  though,  exacting  from  him  a 
promise  which  really  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
solemn  oath. 

"You  see,  Pink  Egg,"  amplified  Mr.  Birds- 
eye  when  the  glittering  main  fact  of  his  ambi 
tion  had  been  revealed,  "it'll  be  like  this:  The 
Moguls  get  in  here  over  the  O.  &  Y.  V.  at 
twelve-forty-five  that  day.  Coming  from  the 
West,  that  means  they  hit  Barstow  Junction  at 
eleven-twenty  and  lay  over  there  nine  minutes 
for  the  northbound  connection.  Well,  I'm 
making  Delhi  the  day  before — seeing  my  trade 
there.  I  drive  over  to  the  junction  that  even 
ing  from  Delhi — it's  only  nine  miles  by  buggy — 
stay  all  night  at  the  hotel,  and  when  the  train 
with  the  team  gets  in  next  morning,  who  climbs 
aboard  her?  Nobody  but  just  little  old  me." 

"But  won't  there  be  a  delegation  from  here 
waiting  at  Barstow  to  meet  'em  and  ride  in  with 
'em?" 

Mr.  Birdseye  was  wise  in  the  lore  of  local  time 
cards.     He  shook  his  head. 
[376] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


"Not  a  chance,  Pinkie,  not  a  chance.  The 
only  way  to  get  out  to  Barstow  from  here  that 
morning  would  be  to  get  up  at  four  o'clock  and 
catch  the  early  freight.  No,  sir,  the  crowd 
here  won't  see  the  boys  until  we  all  come  piling 
off  at  the  union  depot  at  twelve-forty-five.  By 
that  time  I'll  be  calling  all  those  Moguls  by 
their  first  names.  Give  me  an  hour;  that's  all 
I  ask — just  an  hour  on  the  same  train  together 
with  'em.  You  know  me,  and  from  reading  in 
the  papers  about  'em,  you  know  about  what 
kind  of  fellows  those  Moguls  are.  Say,  Pink 
Egg,  can't  you  just  close  your  eyes  and  see  the 
look  on  Nick  Cornwall's  face  when  he  and  all 
the  rest  see  me  stepping  down  off  that  train 
along  with  Swifty  Megrue  and  old  Long  Leaf 
and  the  Indian,  and  all  the  outfit?  I  owe  Nick 
Cornwall  one  anyway.  You  remember  how 
shirty  he  got  with  me  last  year  when  I  went  to 
him  and  told  him  if  he'd  switch  Gillam  from 
short  to  third  and  put  Husk  Blynn  second  in  the 
batting  order  instead  of  fifth,  that  he'd  im 
prove  the  strength  of  the  team  forty  per  cent. 
If  he'd  only  a-done  that,  we'd  have  been  in  the 
money  sure.  But  did  he  do  it?  He  did  not. 
He  told  me  there  was  only  one  manager  getting 
paid  to  run  the  club,  and  so  far  as  he  knew  he 
was  him.  Manager?  Huh!  Look  where  we 
finished — or  would  have  finished  if  the  league 
had  lasted  out  the  season.  Eight  teams,  and  us 
in  eighth  place,  fighting  hard  not  to  be  in 

ninth." 

[377] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"Suppose,  though,  J.  Henry,  there  just  hap 
pens  to  be  somebody  else  from  Anneburg  on  the 
twelve-forty-five?  " 

Perhaps  it  was  a  tiny  spark  of  envy  in  Mr. 
Fluellen's  heart  which  inspired  him  to  raise  this 
second  doubt  against  the  certainty  of  his  friend's 
coup. 

"I  should  worry  if  there  is!"  said  Mr.  Birds- 
eye.  "Who  else  is  there  in  this  town  that  can 
talk  their  own  language  with  those  boys  like  I 
can?  I'll  bet  you  they're  so  blamed  sick  and 
tired  of  talking  with  ignorant,  uneducated  peo 
ple  that  don't  know  a  thing  about  baseball, 
they'll  jump  at  a  chance  to  associate  with  a  man 
that's  really  on  to  every  angle  of  the  game — 
inside  ball  and  averages  and  standings  and  all 
that.  Human  nature  is  just  the  same  in  a 
twenty-thousand-a-year  big  leaguer  as  it  is  in 
anybody  else,  if  you  know  how  to  go  at  him. 
And  if  I  didn't  know  human  nature  from  the 
ground  up,  would  I  be  where  I  am  as  a  travelling 
salesman?  Answer  me  that." 

"I  guess  you're  right,  J.  Henry,"  agreed  Mr. 
Fluellen.  "Gee,  I  wish  I  could  be  along  with 
you,"  he  added  wistfully. 

Mr.  Birdseye  shook  his  head  in  earnest  dis 
count  of  any  such  vain  cravings  upon  Mr. 
Fluellen's  part.  If  there  had  been  the  remotest 
prospect  of  having  Mr.  Fluellen  for  a  compan 
ion  to  share  in  this  glory,  he  wouldn't  have  told 
anything  about  it  to  Mr.  Fluellen  in  the  first 

place. 

[378] 


PERSONA      AU      GRATIN 

"Anyhow,  I  reckon  my  wife  wouldn't  hear 
to  it,"  said  Mr.  Fluellen  hopelessly.  "She's 
funny  that  way." 

"No,  it  wouldn't  do  for  you  to  be  along 
either,  Pink  Egg,"  said  Mr.  Birdseye  compas 
sionately  but  with  all  firmness.  "You  don't 
know  the  real  science  of  baseball  the  same  as  I 
do.  They  wouldn't  care  to  talk  to  anybody 
that  was  even  the  least  bit  off  on  the  fine  points. 
I  was  just  thinking — I'll  be  able  to  give  'em 
some  tips  about  how  to  size  up  the  situation 
here — not  that  they  need  it  particularly." 

"J.  Henry,  you  wouldn't  tip  'em  off  to  the 
weak  spots  in  the  Anneburg  team?"  Loyalty 
to  local  ideals  sharpened  Mr.  Fluellen's  voice 
with  anxiety. 

"Certainly  not,  Pink  Egg,  certainly  not," 
reassured  Mr.  Birdseye.  "What  do  you  think 
I  am?  Not  that  they  need  to  be  told  anything. 
They'll  wipe  up  the  ground  with  our  bunch  of 
morning  glories  anyway — best  we  can  hope  for 
is  that  we  don't  get  skunked  and  that  the  score 
is  kind  of  low.  But  I'll  certainly  put  'em  wise 
to  that  soft  place  back  of  centre  field,  where  the 
grass  is  high.  That's  only  true  sportsmanship, 
that's  only  fair." 

"Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Fluellen,  "I  reckon 
that's  no  more  than  fair.  Well,  as  I  said  before, 
J.  Henry,  I  certainly  wish  I  was  going  to  be  with 

you." 

The  great  day  came  and  was  auspiciously 

[379] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


sunshiny  from  its  dawning  onward.  Contrary 
to  the  custom  of  trams  in  certain  interior  sec 
tions  of  our  common  country,  the  train  upon 
which  so  much  depended  slid  into  Barstow  Junc 
tion  at  eleven-twenty,  exactly  on  time.  On  the 
platform  of  the  little  box  station,  awaiting  it, 
stood  our  Mr.  Birdseye,  impatiently  enduring 
the  company  of  a  combination  agent-teleg- 
rapher-ticketseller,  who  wore  pink  sleeve-gar 
ters  with  rosettes  on  them  and  a  watch  charm 
carved  from  a  peach  kernel  to  represent  a  mon 
key  with  its  tail  curved  over  its  back. 

Mr.  Birdseye  was  costumed  in  a  fashion  befit 
ting  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  as  he  sensed  it.  The 
main  item  of  his  attire  was  a  new  light-gray 
business  suit,  but  lightening  touches  of  a  semi- 
sporting  character  were  provided  by  such  fur 
ther  adornments  as  a  white  Fedora  hat  with  a 
wide  black  band,  a  soft  collar  held  down  trimly 
with  a  gold  pin  fashioned  like  a  little  riding-crop, 
and  low  tan  shoes  with  elaborated  gunwalelike 
extensions  of  the  soles,  showing  heavy  stitching. 
The  finger  tips  of  a  pair  of  buckskin  gloves,  pro 
truding  from  a  breast  pocket  of  his  coat,  sug 
gested  two-thirds  of  a  dozen  of  small  but  well- 
ripened  plantains.  His  visible  jewelry  in 
cluded  dog's-head  cuff  buttons  and  a  fob  strap 
of  plaited  leather  with  a  heavy  silver  harness 
buckle  setting  off  its  pendant  end. 

Looking  the  general  effect  over  from  time  to 
time  during  that  dragging  forenoon,  he  had  each 
separate  time  felt  himself  to  be  habited  in  ac- 
[380] 


PERSONA      AU      GRATIN 

cordance  with  the  best  taste  and  the  best  judg 
ment,  considering  the  nature  of  the  occasion 
and  the  role  he  meant  to  play.  An  added  fillip 
to  his  anticipations  was  afforded  by  the  con 
sciousness  that  no  rival  would  divide  the  com 
ing  triumph  with  him.  Anneburg  had  forty 
thousand  inhabitants,  including  whites — that 
is,  forty  thousand  by  the  United  States  census 
reports;  seventy-five  thousand  by  patriotic 
local  estimates.  By  sight  or  by  name  Mr. 
Birdseye  knew  most  of  the  whites  and  many  of 
the  blacks,  browns  and  yellows.  At  the  hotel 
no  Anneburgian  name  was  registered,  saving 
and  excepting  his  own;  in  the  little  knot  gath 
ered  on  the  platform  no  familiar  Anneburg 
shape  now  disclosed  itself.  He  was  alone  and 
all  was  well. 

The  locomotive  rolled  in  and  gently  halted, 
as  though  to  avoid  jostling  its  precious  freight 
age  of  talent.  Behind  it,  tailing  along  up  the 
track,  stretched  two  day  coaches  and  sundry 
Pullmans.  From  these  last  dropped  down 
dark-faced  figures,  white-clad  in  short  jackets, 
and  they  placed  boxes  below  every  alternate 
set  of  car  steps.  The  train  conductor  dis 
mounted.  Carrying  a  small  handbag,  Mr. 
Birdseye  approached  and  hailed  him. 
"Hello,  Cap,"  he  said,  "have  a  smoke." 
"Thanks."  The  conductor  deposited  the 
cigar  with  tender  care  in  the  crown  of  his  uni 
form  cap.  "Smoke  it  later  on,  if  you  don't 
mind.  Nice  weather." 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"Which  car  are  the  boys  on?"  asked  Mr. 
Birdseye. 

"Boys— which  boys?" 

"Why,  the  boys  that  are  going  to  play  Anne- 
burg,  of  course." 

"Oh,  that  bunch?  Back  yonder."  He 
flirted  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  tail 
of  his  vestibuled  convoy.  If  the  conductor 
meant  to  say  more  he  lost  the  chance  through 
his  own  slowness.  Already  Mr.  Birdseye  was 
hurrying  up  the  cindered  stretch  beyond  the 
platform. 

At  the  portals  of  the  rearmost  Pullman  but 
one  a  porter  interposed  himself. 

"Private  sleeper,  cap'n,"  he  warned. 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  stated  Mr.  Birdseye. 
"That's  the  one  I'm  looking  for — came  out  from 
Anneburg  especially  to  meet  the  boys  and  ride 
in  with  'em."  He  proffered  a  small  cardboard 
slip  and  with  it  a  large  round  coin.  "Take 
the  Pullman  fare  out  of  that  and  keep  the 
change." 

"A5  right,  suh,  boss — an'  much  obliged." 
The  porter  pouched  dollar  and  ticket  with  one 
hand  and  with  the  other  saluted  profoundly. 
He  aided  the  generous  white  gentleman  to 
mount  the  steps. 

Within  the  door  of  the  coach,  at  the  mouth 
of  its  narrow  end  passage,  Mr.  Birdseye  halted 
to  take  swift  inventory  of  its  interior.  It  was  a 
sleeper  of  the  pattern  familiar  to  all  who  travel 
much  and  widely ;  it  looked  its  part  and  smelled 
[382  J 


PERSONA      AU      GRATIN 

it,  giving  off  the  inevitable  torrid  aromas  of 
warm  plush  and  heat-softened  shellac.  It  con 
tained  fifteen  or  eighteen  occupants  scattered 
through  its  length,  some  sitting  singly,  some 
paired  off  and,  in  one  group,  four  together,  play 
ing  cards — all  young  or  youngish  men,  all 
smartly  dressed,  all  live-looking.  At  first 
glance  Mr.  Birdseye  told  himself  he  was  in  the 
right  car.  At  second  glance  he  told  himself  he 
was  not  so  absolutely  sure.  For  one  thing,  the 
persons  here  revealed  seemed  so  quiet,  so  se 
date;  there  was  no  skylarking;  no  quips  flying 
back  and  forth;  no  persiflage  filtering  out  of  the 
open  windows.  Still,  for  one  initiated,  it  should 
be  an  easy  task  to  make  sure,  and  very  sure  at 
that. 

Almost  in  arm-reach  of  him  two  of  the  pas 
sengers  faced  each  other  from  opposite  seats 
with  a  checkerboard  upon  their  knees.  The  one 
who  had  his  back  to  Mr.  Birdseye,  a  tall,  light- 
haired  person,  kept  his  head  bent  in  deep  study 
of  the  problem  of  the  next  move.  His  oppo 
nent  looked  up.  Barring  the  cut  and  colour  of 
his  costume  he  might  have  passed,  with  his 
smooth,  rosy  cheek  and  his  round,  blue  Irish 
orb,  for  a  Christian  Brother.  Full  well  did  Mr. 
Birdseye  know  that  Gigs  McGuire,  foremost  of 
all  second-basemen,  had  studied  for  the  priest 
hood  before  he  abandoned  the  seminary  for  the 
stadium.  Indeed,  he  knew  all  about  Gigs 
McGuire  that  the  leading  chroniclers  of  baseball 
had  ever  written  for  publication.  He  advanced 
[383  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


half  a  pace,  his  right  arm  extended,  a  greeting 
forming  on  his  lips. 

The  ensuing  conduct  of  the  blue-eyed  man 
was  peculiar,  not  to  say  disconcerting.  He 
stared  at  Mr.  Birdseye  for  the  brief  part  of  a 
brief  second.  Then  he  twisted  his  head  over 
his  shoulder,  and,  without  addressing  anyone  in 
particular,  rapidly  uttered  the  word  "Cheese!" 
thrice  in  a  tone  of  seeming  impatience.  And 
then  he  picked  up  a  red  disk  and  with  it 
jumped  a  black  one.  Mr.  Birdseye  felt  con 
strained  to  step  along. 

Across  the  aisle  diagonally  were  the  four  who 
played  at  cards.  It  was  to  be  seen  that  bridge 
was  the  game  occupying  them.  And  bridge, 
properly  played,  is  an  absorbing  pursuit,  re 
quiring  concentration  and  silence.  None  of  the 
quartet  bestowed  so  much  as  a  sidelong  look 
upon  Mr.  Birdseye  as  Mr.  Birdseye,  slowly  ad 
vancing  toward  the  middle  of  the  car,  passed 
them  by. 

Thus  progressing,  he  came  close  to  one  who 
spraddled  in  solitary  comfort  over  two  seats. 
This  one  was  interred  nose-deep  in  a  book. 

"Hello,"  said  Mr.  Birdseye  tentatively,  al 
most  timidly,  for  increasing  doubt  assailed  him. 

*°Lo,"  answered  the  reader  in  a  chill  mono 
syllable  without  lifting  his  face  from  his  book. 
Mr.  Birdseye  noted  that  the  book  contained 
verse  printed  in  German,  and  he  regretted 
having  spoken.  It  wasn't  in  the  nature  of 
things  for  a  ballplayer  to  be  reading  German 
[384] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


poetry  in  the  original,  and  he  had  no  time  to 
waste  upon  any  other  than  a  ballplayer. 

In  that  same  instant,  though,  his  glance  fell 
on  the  next  two  passengers,  and  his  heart  gave 
a  glad  upward  leap  hi  his  bosom.  Surely  the 
broad  man  with  the  swarthy  skin  and  the 
straight  black  hair  must  be  the  Indian.  Just 
as  surely  the  short,  square  man  alongside,  the 
owner  of  that  heavy  jaw  and  that  slightly  up- 
tilted  nose,  could  be  none  but  the  Richelieu  of 
managers.  Mr.  Birdseye  almost  sprang  for 
ward. 

"Well,  Chief!"  he  cried  genially.  "Well, 
Swifty!  I  thought  I'd  find  you.  How's  every 
thing?" 

Coldly  they  both  regarded  him.  It  was  the 
short,  square  man  who  answered,  and  the  reader 
behind  put  down  his  volume  of  Heine  to  listen. 

"Everything  would  be  all  right  if  they'd 
only  keep  these  car  doors  locked,"  said  the  short 
man,  and  he  didn't  speak  as  a  true  sportsman 
should  speak — tone,  inflection,  pronunciation, 
all  were  wrong.  Enthusiasm  was  lacking,  jovi 
ality  was  woefully  missing.  He  continued,  in 
the  manner  rather  of  a  civil  engineer — an  im 
passive  ordinarily  civil  engineer,  say,  who  was 
now  slightly  irritated  about  something:  "I  fig 
ure  you've  made  a  mistake.  This  gentleman  is 
not  a  chief — he's  my  private  secretary.  And 
my  name  does  not  happen  to  be  Swift,  if  I  heard 
you  right.  My  name  is  Dinglefoogle — Omar 

G.  Dinglefoogle,  of  Swedish  descent." 

[385  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


He  disengaged  his  gaze  from  that  of  the 
abashed  Birdseye  and  resumed  his  conversa 
tion  with  his  companion  at  a  point  where  it  had 
been  interrupted: 

"Have  it  your  own  way,  John.  Abbey  for 
yours,  but  Sargent  and  Whistler  for  mine — yes, 
and  Remington." 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  find  anything  to 
beat  that  thing  of  Abbey's — The  Search  for  the 
Holy  Grail?"  It  was  the  swarthy  man  taking 
up  the  issue.  "Every  time  I  go  to  Boston — 

Moving  onward  in  a  small,  self-generated  fog 
of  bewilderment  which  travelled  with  him,  Mr. 
Birdseye  heard  no  more.  So  moving,  he  passed 
in  turn  a  young  man  who  was  bedded  down  in  a 
nest  of  pamphlets  and  Government  bulletins 
dealing  in  the  main  apparently  with  topics  re 
lating  to  forestry  or  else  with  intensive  farming; 
and  a  young  man  who  napped  with  his  hat  over 
his  eyes;  and  another  young  man  intently  mak 
ing  notes  on  the  back  of  an  envelope;  and 
two  young  men  silently  examining  the  mechan 
ism  of  a  gold  watch  which  plainly  was  the  prop 
erty  of  one  of  the  two;  until  at  the  far  end  of 
the  car  he  came  to  one  more  young  man  who, 
casting  aside  a  newspaper  and  straightening  to 
get  the  kinks  out  of  his  back,  showed  Mr.  Birds- 
eye  a  profiled  face  of  a  clear  pinkish  colour, 
with  a  calm,  reflective  eye  set  in  it  under  a  pale 
yellow  eyebrow  and,  above,  a  mop  of  hair  so 
light  as  to  be  almost  white.  Verily  there  could 
be  no  confusion  of  identity  here.  Coincidence 
[386] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


was  coincidence,  but  so  unique,  so  distinctive, 
a  physical  aspect  was  not  to  be  duplicated  out 
side  of  a  story  book. 

"Say,  I'd  know  you  anywhere  by  your  pic 
tures,"  said  Mr.  Birdseye,  and  extended  the 
right  hand  of  fellowship. 

"That's  the  main  objection  to  those  pictures 
— they  do  look  a  little  like  me,"  replied  the 
young  man  with  a  smile  so  grave  as  to  verge 
upon  the  melancholy.  Half  rising,  he  shook 
hands  with  the  other.  "Have  a  seat?"  Hos 
pitably  he  indicated  the  cushioned  expanse  in 
front  of  him  and  drew  in  his  knees. 

Here  was  proof,  added  and  cumulative.  The 
voice  of  the  pale-haired  young  man  was  as  it 
should  be,  a  gently  modulated  r-slurring  voice. 
Was  it  not  known  of  all  men  that  Albino  Ma- 
goon,  the  Circassian  Beauty  of  the  outfield, 
owned  allegiance  of  birth  to  the  Sunny  South 
land,  Mr.  Birdseye's  own  land?  Bond  and 
double  bond  would  they  share  between  them. 
In  a  flutter  of  reviving  joy  Mr.  Birdseye 
scrooged  in  and  sat. 

The  young  man,  having  done  the  courtesies, 
sat  back  modestly  as  though  awaiting  the  new 
comer's  pleasure  in  the  matter  of  choosing  a 
topic  for  conversation.  Mr.  Birdseye  lost  no 
time.  He  knew  the  subjects  fittest  to  be  dis 
cussed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  about 
Chicago's  chances?  Think  she's  going  to  give 
New  York  a  run  for  her  white  alley  this  year?" 
[387] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  suh."  Such  was  the 
first  sentence  of  the  astonishing  rejoinder. 
"Chicago  is  growing,  awfully  fast — faster  than 
any  big  interior  city,  I  presume,  but  the  latest 
figures  show  New  York  has  a  greater  popula 
tion  now,  including  suburbs,  than  London  even. 
It's  hardly  possible,  I  reckon,  for  Chicago  to 
hope  to  catch  up  with  New  York — this  year  or 
any  other  year." 

Puzzled,  I  must  admit,  but  by  no  means  non 
plused,  Mr.  Birdseye  jibed  and  went  about 
mentally.  As  the  cant  phrase  goes,  he  took  a 
new  tack. 

"Say,  listen,"  he  said;  "do  you  know  what  I 
think?  I  think  the  Federals  gave  you-all  a  rot 
ten  deal.  Yes,  sir,  a  rotten  deal  all  the  way 
through.  Naturally  down  here  nearly  every 
body  feels  that  way  about  it — naturally  the 
sympathies  of  nearly  everybody  in  this  part  of 
the  country  would  turn  that  way  anyhow.  I 
reckon  you'd  know  that  without  my  telling  you 
how  we  feel.  Of  course  a  good  knock-do  wn- 
and-drag-out  fight  is  all  right,  but  when  you 
sit  down  and  figure  out  the  way  the  Federals 
behaved  right  from  the  start " 

The  other  put  up  an  objecting  hand. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  suh,"  he  said,  "but 
I  don't  believe  in  keeping  those  old  sores  open. 
I  thought  sectionalism  was  dying  out  every 
where — I  hoped  it  was,  anyway.  My  father 
fought  the  Federals  for  four  years  and  he  died 
reconciled.  I  don't  know  why  we  younger  men 
[388] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 

shouldn't  be.  After  all,  we're  all  Americans 
now." 

"I  wasn't  speaking  of  the  Federal  Army," 
explained  Mr.  Birdseye,  desperately  upset.  "I 
was  speaking  of  the  Federal  League." 

"Oh,  the  Federal  League!"  said  the  other. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  suh.  Are  you — are  you  in 
terested  in  baseball?"  He  put  the  question 
wonderingly. 

"Am  I  interested  in — well,  say,  ain't  ycu 
interested?" 

"Me?  Oh,  no,  suh.  I  make  it  a  rule  never 
to  discuss  the  subject.  You  see,  I'm  a  divinity 
student.  I  reckon  you  must've  mistaken  me 
for  somebody  else.  I  was  afraid  so  when  you 
first  spoke.  I'm  mighty  sorry." 

"Yes,  I  must've,"  agreed  Mr.  Birdseye.  He 
got  upon  his  own  feet  and  stumbled  over  the 
young  man's  feet  and  ran  a  hand  through  the 
hair  on  his  pestered  head.  "I  guess  I  must've 
got  in  the  wrong  car." 

"That's  probably  it,"  said  the  pale-haired 
one.  His  odd-coloured  but  ingenuous  counte 
nance  expressed  solicitude  and  sympathy  for  the 
stranger's  disappointment.  Indeed,  it  wrinkled 
and  twitched  almost  as  though  this  tender 
hearted  person  meant  to  shed  tears.  As  if  to 
hide  his  emotions,  he  suddenly  reached  for  his  dis 
carded  newspaper  and  in  its  opened  pages  buried 
his  face  to  the  ears — ears  which  slowly  turned 
from  pink  to  red.  When  next  he  spoke  it  was 
from  behind  the  shelter  of  his  newsprint  shield, 
[389] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

and  his  voice  seemed  choked.  "Undoubtedly 
that's  it — you  got  in  the  wrong  car.  Well,  good 
bye,  my  brother — and  God  bless  and  speed  you." 

At  this  precise  moment,  with  the  train  just 
beginning  to  pull  out  from  Barstow  Junction, 
with  the  light-haired  man  sinking  deeper  and 
deeper  inside  the  opened  sheets,  and  with  Mr. 
Birdseye  teetering  on  uncertain  legs  in  the  aisle, 
there  came  to  the  latter's  ears  what  he  might 
have  heard  before  had  his  hearing  been  attuned 
f ' v  sounds  from  that  quarter.  He  heard  a  great 
rollicking,  whooping,  vehement  outburst  com 
ing  from  the  next  car  back,  which  was  likewise 
the  last  car.  It  had  youth  in  it,  that  sound  did 
—the  spirit  of  unbridled,  exuberant  youth  at 
play,  and  abandon  and  deviltry  and  prankish- 
ness  and  carefreedom.  Mr.  Birdseye  faced 
about.  He  caught  up  his  handbag  and,  swift 
as  a  courier  bearing  glad  tidings,  he  sped  on 
winged  feet — at  least  those  extensive  soles  al 
most  approximated  wings — through  the  cramped 
passage  flanking  the  smoking  compartment. 
Where  the  two  cars  clankingly  joined  beneath 
a  metal  flange  he  came  into  collision  with  a 
train  butcher  just  emerging  from  the  rear 
sleeper. 

Butch's  hair  was  dishevelled  and  his  collar 
awry.  He  dangled  an  emptied  fruit  basket  in 
one  hand  and  clinked  coins  together  in  the  palm 
of  the  other.  On  his  face  was  a  grin  of  comic 
dismay  and  begrudged  admiration. 

"Some  gang  back  there — some  wild  gang!" 
[390] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


he  murmured  and,  dodging  adeptly  past  Mr. 
Birdseye,  was  gone,  heading  forward. 

The  searcher  rounded  the  jog  of  the  compart 
ment  reservation,  and  inside  him  then  his  soul 
was  lifted  up  and  exalted.  There  could  be  no 
mistake  now.  Within  the  confines  of  this  Pull 
man  romped  and  rampaged  young  men  and 
youths  to  the  number  of  perhaps  twenty. 
There  seemed  to  be  more  than  twenty  of  them; 
that,  though,  was  due  to  the  flitting  movements 
of  their  rambunctious  forms.  Norfolk-jacketed 
bodies,  legs  in  modishly  short  trousers  deeply 
cuffed  at  the  bottoms,  tousled  heads  to  which 
rakish  soft  hats  and  plaid  travelling  caps  ad 
hered  at  angles  calculated  to  upset  the  theory 
of  the  attraction  of  gravitation,  showed  here, 
there,  everywhere,  in  a  confused  and  shifting 
vista.  Snappy  suit  cases,  a  big,  awkward- 
looking,  cylindrical  bag  of  canvas,  leather- 
faced,  and  two  or  three  other  boxes  in  which,  to 
judge  by  their  shapes,  stringed  musical  instru 
ments  were  temporarily  entombed,  encumbered 
a  seat  near  by. 

All  this  Mr.  Birdseye's  kindled  eye  compre 
hended  in  the  first  quick  scrutiny.  Also  it  took 
in  the  posture  of  a  long,  lean,  lanky  giant  in  his 
early  twenties,  who  stood  midway  of  the  coach, 
balancing  himself  easily  on  his  legs,  for  by  now 
the  train  was  picking  up  speed.  One  arm  of  the 
tall  athlete — the  left — was  laid  along  his  breast, 
and  in  its  crook  it  held  several  small,  half- 
ripened  oranges.  His  right  hand  would  pluck 


LOCAL      COLOR 


up  an  orange,  the  right  arm  would  wind  up,  and 
then  with  marvellous  accuracy  and  incredible 
velocity  the  missile  would  fly,  like  a  tawny- 
green  streak,  out  of  an  open  window  at  some  con 
venient  target.  So  fast  he  worked  and  so  wrell, 
it  seemed  as  though  a  constant  stream  of  citrus 
was  being  discharged  through  that  particular 
window.  An  orange  spattered  against  a  sign 
post  marking  the  limits  of  the  yard.  Two 
oranges  in  instantaneous  succession  struck  the 
rounded  belly  of  a  water  tank,  making  twin 
yellow  asterisks  where  they  hit.  A  fourth, 
driven  as  though  by  a  piston,  whizzed  past  the 
nappy  head  of  a  darky  pedestrian  who  had 
halted  to  watch  the  train  go  by.  That  darky 
ducked  just  in  time. 

Mr.  Birdseye  lunged  forward  to  pay  tribute 
to  the  sharpshooter.  Beyond  peradventure 
there  could  be  but  one  set  of  muscles  on  this  con 
tinent  capable  of  such  marksmanship.  But 
another  confronted  him,  barring  his  way,  a 
stockily  built  personage  with  a  wide,  humor 
ous  face,  and  yet  with  authority  in  all  its  con 
tour  and  lines. 

"Well,  see  who's  here!"  he  clarioned  and  lit 
erally  he  embraced  Mr.  Birdseye,  pinning  that 
gentleman's  arms  to  his  sides.  He  bent  his 
head  and  put  his  lips  close  to  Mr.  Birdseye's 
flattered  ear,  the  better  to  be  heard  above  the 
uproar  dinning  about  them.  "What  was  the 
name?"  he  inquired. 

"Birdseye — J.  Henry  Birdseye." 

[392] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


Continuing  to  maintain  a  firm  grasp  upon 
Mr.  Birdseye's  coat  sleeve  the  stocky  individual 
swung  about  and  called  for  attention: 

"Gentlemen,  one  moment — one  moment,  if 
you  please." 

Plainly  he  had  unquestioned  dominion  over 
this  mad  and  pranksome  crew.  His  fellows 
paused  in  whatever  they  were  doing  to  give 
heed  unto  his  words. 

"Boys,  it  gives  me  joy  to  introduce  to  you 
Colonel  Birdshot." 

"Birdseye,"  corrected  his  prisoner,  over 
come  with  gratification,  not  unmixed  with  em 
barrassment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  master  of  cere 
monies.  Then  more  loudly  again:  "I  should 
have  said  Col.  Birdseye  Maple." 

"Three  cheers  for  the  walking  bedroom  set!" 
This  timely  suggestion  emanated  from  a  wiry 
skylarker  who  had  drawn  nigh  and  was  en 
deavouring  to  find  Mr.  Birdseye's  hand  with  a 
view  to  shaking  it. 

Three  cheers  they  were,  and  right  heartily 
given  too. 

•  "And  to  what,  may  I  ask — to  what  are  we 
indebted  for  the  pleasure  of  this  unexpected 
but  nevertheless  happy  meeting?"  asked  the 
blocky  man.  One  instant  he  suggested  the 
prime  minister;  the  next,  the  court  jester.  And 
was  not  that  as  it  should  be  too?  It  was,  if 
one  might  credit  what  one  had  read  of  the  king- 

pin  of  managers. 

[393] 


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"Why — why,  I  just  ran  over  from  Anneburg 
to  meet  you  and  ride  in  with  you- — and  sort  of 
put  you  onto  the  ropes  and  everything,"  vouch 
safed  Mr.  Birdseye. 

"Well,  isn't  that  splendid — we  didn't  ex 
pect  it!"  Once  more  he  addressed  his  atten 
tive  fellows: 

"Gentlemen,  you'll  never  guess  it  until  I  tell 
you.  It  is  none  other  than  the  official  reception 
committee  bearing  with  it  the  keys  of  the  cor 
poration.  I  shrewdly  suspect  the  Colonel  has 
the  words  '  Welcome  to  Our  City '  tattooed  upon 
his  chest." 

"Let's  undress  him  and  see." 

The  idea  was  advanced  by  the  same  wire 
drawn  youngster  who  had  called  for  the  cheers. 
He  laid  hold  on  Mr.  Birdseye 's  collar,  but  in 
stantly  the  happy  captive  was  plucked  from  his 
grasp  and  passed  from  one  to  another  of  the 
clustering  group.  They  squeezed  Mr.  Birds- 
eye's  fingers  with  painfully  affectionate  force; 
they  dealt  him  cordially  violent  slaps  upon  the 
back.  They  inquired  regarding  his  own  health 
and  the  health  of  his  little  ones,  and  in  less  than 
no  time  at  all,  it  seemed  to  him,  he,  somewhat 
jostled  and  dishevelled,  confused  but  filled 
with  a  tingling  bliss,  had  been  propelled  the 
length  of  the  aisle  and  back  again,  and  found 
himself  sitting  so  he  faced  the  directing  genius 
of  this  exuberant  coterie  of  athletes.  The  rest, 
sensing  that  their  leader  desired  conference  with 
the  newcomer,  resumed  their  diversions,  and  so 
[394] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


in  a  small  eddy  of  calm  on  the  edge  of  a  ty 
phoon  of  clamour  these  two — Birdseye  and  the 
great  manager — conversed  together  as  man  to 
man. 

"And  so  you  ran  down  to  meet  us — that  was 
bully,"  said  the  blocky  man.  His  mood  was 
now  serious,  and  Mr.  Birdseye  set  himself  to 
reply  in  the  same  spirit.  "What's  the  pros 
pects  for  a  crowd  over  in  Anneburg?" 

"Couldn't  be  better,"  Mr.  Birdseye  told  him. 
"Everybody  in  town  that  can  walk,  ride  or 
crawl  will  be  out  to  see  you  fellows  play." 

"To  see  us  play — that's  good!" 

"The  Mayor  is  going  to  be  there,  and  ex- 
Governor  Featherston — he's  about  the  biggest 
man  we've  got  in  Anneburg — and  oh,  just 
everybody." 

"Whosoever  will,  let  him  come,  that's  our 
motto,"  stated  his  vis-a-vis;  "entertainment 
for  man  and  beast.  You'll  be  there  of  course?  " 

"In  a  front  seat — rooting  my  head  off," 
promised  Mr.  Birdseye,  forgetting  in  the  su 
preme  joy  of  this  supreme  moment  that  he  owed 
first  duty  to  Anneburg's  own  puny  contenders. 
"Say,  you  fellows  are  just  exactly  like  I  thought 
you'd  be — regular  hellions.  Well,  it's  the  old 
pep  that  counts." 

"You  said  it — the  old  pep  is  the  thing." 

"What  kind  of  a  trip  did  you  have  coming 
up?" 

"Fine — fine  from  the  start." 

"And  where  do  you  go  from  Anneburg?" 
[395] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

"Asheville,  then  Richmond.  Anneburg  is 
the  smallest  town  we  play." 

"Don't  think  we  don't  appreciate  it,  Swifty. 
Say,  the  Big  Fellow  certainly  can  pitch,  can't 
he?"  Mr.  Birdseye  pointed  toward  the  flinger 
of  oranges  who,  having  exhausted  his  ammuni 
tion,  was  now  half  out  of  a  window,  contemplat 
ing  the  flitting  landscape.  "How's  his  arm 
going  to  be  this  year?" 

"Better  than  ever — better  than  ever.  I 
guess  you  know  about  the  no-hit  game  he 
pitched  last  year — the  last  game  he  played?" 

"Tell  me  something  about  that  kid  I  don't 
know,"  boasted  Mr.  Birdseye.  "I've  followed 
him  from  the  time  he  first  broke  in." 

"Then  you  know  he's  there  with  the  pipes?" 

"The  pipes?" 

"Sure — the  educated  larynx,  the  talented 
tonsils,  the  silver-lined  throat — in  other  words, 
the  gift  of  song." 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  he  sang,"  owned  Mr. 
Birdseye,  a  mite  puzzled. 

"That's  it — let  a  fellow  do  one  thing  better 
than  anybody  else,  and  they  forget  his  other 
accomplishments.  Sing?  Well,  rather!  And 
punish  old  John  J.  Mandolin,  too,  if  anybody 
should  ask  you." 

So  saying,  the  speaker  drew  forth  a  bulldog 
pipe  and  proceeded  to  load  it  from  a  leather 
tobacco  case. 

"I  don't  have  to  keep  in  condition,  seeing  as 
I'm    merely    running    things,"    he    explained. 
[396] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


"But  you  bet  I  make  my  flock  keep  in  condition 
— no  boozing  and  mighty  little  cigarette  smok 
ing  for  them  while  their  little  papa's  eye  is  on 
them." 

"I've  always  heard  you  were  strong  for  disci 
pline,"  said  Mr.  Birdseye,  plastering  the  flatter 
ing  unction  on  thickly. 

"I  have  to  be,  with  a  rowdy  outfit  like  this 
one.  Look  yonder — that's  a  sample  of  the  way 
they  carry  on  when  the  bridle  is  off." 

Three  of  these  temporarily  unhaltered  colts 
had  captured  the  car  porter.  Two  held  him 
fast  while  the  third  massaged  his  woolly  scalp 
with  hard  knuckles.  Half  a  dozen  more 
shouted  advice  to  the  operator.  The  porter 
broke  away  and  fled,  his  expression  be 
traying  that  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  feel  in 
dignant  or  complimented.  Mr.  Birdseye  saw 
that  the  volunteer  masseur,  now  approaching 
them,  had  coal-black  hair  and  snapping  black 
eyes,  and  a  skin  the  colour  of  polished  cherry. 

"That's  the  Chief  coming,  of  course?"  opined 
Mr.  Birdseye.  His  tone  was  filled  with  rever 
ence. 

"Sh-h,  don't  let  him  hear  you.  If  I  had  a 
big  Indian  whatyoumaycallim  for  a  grand 
father  I'd  advertise  it,  but  he's  a  little  touchy  on 
the  subject.  Great  boy  though — one  of  the 
best." 

"Part  Pawnee,  ain't  he?" 

"No;  Parsee,  I  think." 

Mr.  Birdseye  was  going  to  ask  where  that 
[397] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


tribe  lived,  but  skylarking  broke  out  in  a  fresh 
quarter  and  he  forgot  it.  They  talked  averages 
then,  or  started  to.  Mr.  Birdseye  was  made 
proud  to  find  his  companion  agreed  with  him 
that  Tris  Speaker  undoubtedly  had  a  shade  on 
Joe  Jackson,  and  then  was  just  about  to  take 
up  the  question  of  Honus  Wagner's  ability  to 
come  back  after  his  last  season's  slump — a  vital 
issue  and  one  upon  which  he  entertained  decided 
views  in  the  affirmative — when  something  oc 
curred.  Without  being  able  to  comprehend 
exactly  how  it  came  about,  he  discovered  him 
self  all  of  a  sudden  forming  one  link  in  a  human 
chain  of  which  six  or  eight  more  were  likewise 
component  parts.  With  arms  intertwined  and 
heads  bent  toward  a  common  centre,  they  all 
mingled  their  lusty  voices  in  snatches  of  song 
and  glee  and  roundelay,  and  he — he  perforce 
joined  with  them.  One  moment  Merrily  They 
Rolled  Along,  Rolled  Along,  Rolled  Along — 
indeed  they  did;  the  next,  From  Aunt  Dinah's 
Quilting  Party  they  were  Seeing  Nell-1-l-i-e 
Home.  Then  a  single  minstrel  advanced  the 
duly  credited  assertion  of  parties  unnamed  that 
A  Nigger  Won't  Steal,  whereupon  several  others 
instantly  and  melodiously  responded  to  the 
effect  that  be  this  as  it  may,  I  Caught  Three  in 
My  Cornfield;  One  Had  a  Shovel  and  One 
Had  a  Hoe  and  if  That  Ain't  Stealing  I  Don't 
Know!  And  so  on  without  cessation  for  many 
fleeting,  glorious,  golden  minutes.  Once  Mr. 
Birdseye,  feeling  certain  he  recognised  the 
[398] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


blithesome  tenor  whose  wide  shoulders  his  right 
arm  encompassed,  broke  off  his  carolling  long 
enough  to  say: 

"Some  doings,  eh,  Flying  Jenny?" 

Whereat  the  singer,  thus  jovially  addressed, 
conferred  a  wink  and  a  grin  upon  him  and 
shouted  back:  "Don't  be  so  blamed  formal — 
just  call  me  Jane!"  and  then  skillfully  picked 
up  the  tune  again  and  kept  right  on  tenoring. 
They  were  all  still  enmeshed  and  in  all  unison 
enriching  the  pent-up  confines  of  their  car  with 
close  harmonies  when  the  train  began  to  check 
up  bumpingly,  and  advised  by  familiar  objects 
beginning  to  pass  the  windows  Mr.  Birdseye 
realised  that  they  approached  their  destination. 
It  didn't  seem  humanly  possible  that  so  much 
time  had  elapsed  with  such  miraculous  rapidity, 
but  there  was  the  indisputable  evidence  in 
Langford's  Real  Estate  Division  and  the  track- 
side  warehouses  of  Brazzell  Brothers'  Pride  of 
Dixie  fertilizer  works.  From  a  chosen  and  ac 
cepted  comrade  he  now  became  also  a  guide. 

"Fellows!"  he  announced,  breaking  out  of 
the  ring,  "we'll  be  in  in  just  a  minute — this  is 
Anneburg!" 

Coincidentally  with  this  announcement  the 
conductor  appeared  at  the  forward  end  of  the 
car  and  in  a  word  gave  confirmatory  evi 
dence.  Of  the  car  porter  there  was  no  sign. 
Duty  called  him  to  be  present,  but  pru 
dence  bade  him  nay.  He  had  discretion,  that 

porter. 

[399] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


The  song  that  was  being  sung  at  that  particu 
lar  moment — whatever  it  was — was  suffered  to 
languish  and  die  midway  of  a  long-drawn  re 
frain.  There  was  a  scattering  of  the  minstrels 
to  snatch  up  suit  cases,  bags  and  other  portable 
impedimenta. 

"I'll  ride  up  to  the  hotel  with  you,"  sug 
gested  Mr.  Birdseye,  laying  a  detaining  hand 
upon  the  master's  elbow.  "If  I  get  a  chance 
there's  something  I  want  to  tell  you  on  the 
way."  He  was  just  remembering  he  had  for 
gotten  to  mention  that  treacherous  soft  spot 
back  of  centre  field. 

"You  bet  your  blameless  young  life  you'll 
ride  with  us!"  answered  back  the  other,  reach 
ing  for  a  valise. 

"What?  Lose  our  honoured  and  esteemed 
reception  committee  now?  Not  a  chance!" 
confirmed  an  enormous  youth  whose  bass  tones 
fitted  him  for  the  life  of  a  troubadour,  but  whose 
breadth  of  frame  qualified  him  for  piano- 
moving  or  centre-rushing.  With  a  great  bear- 
hug  he  lifted  Mr.  Birdseye  in  his  arms,  roughly 
fondling  him. 

"You're  going  to  the  Hotel  Balboa,  of 
course,"  added  Mr.  Birdseye,  regaining  his  feet 
and  his  breath  as  the  caressing  grip  of  the  giant 
relaxed. 

"Hotel  Balboa  is  right,  old  Pathfinder." 

"Then  we'd  all  better  take  the  hotel  bus  up 
town,  hadn't  we?" 

"Just  watch  us  take  it." 

[400] 


PERSONA      AU      GRATIN 


"I'll  lay  eight  to  five  that  bus  has  never  been 
properly  taken  before  now." 

"But  it's  about  to  be."  He  who  uttered  this 
prophecy  was  the  brisk  youngster  who  had 
objected  to  being  designated  by  so  elaborated  a 
title  as  Flying  Jenny. 

"All  out!" 

Like  a  chip  on  the  crest  of  a  mountain  tor 
rent  Mr.  Birdseye  was  borne  down  the  car  steps 
as  the  train  halted  beneath  the  shed  of  the 
Anneburg  station.  Across  the  intervening 
tracks,  through  the  gate  and  the  station  and  out 
again  at  the  far  side  of  the  waiting  room  the 
living  freshet  poured.  As  he  was  carried  along 
with  it,  the  Indian  being  at  his  right  hand,  the 
orange  thrower  at  his  left,  and  behind  him  irre 
sistible  forces  ramping  and  roaring,  Mr.  Birds- 
eye  was  aware  of  a  large  crowd,  of  Nick  Corn 
wall,  of  others  locally  associated  with  the  desti 
nies  of  the  Anneburg  team,  of  many  known  to 
him  personally  or  by  name,  all  staring  hard, 
with  puzzled  looks,  as  he  went  whirling  on  by. 
Their  faces  were  visible  a  fleeting  moment,  then 
vanished  like  faces  seen  in  a  fitful  dream,  and 
now  the  human  ground  swell  had  surrounded 
and  inundated  a  large  motorbus,  property  of  the 
Hotel  Balboa. 

Strong  arms  reached  upward  and,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  child,  plucked  from  his  perch 
the  dumfounded  driver  of  this  vehicle,  with  a 
swing  depositing  him  ten  feet  distant,  well  out 
of  harm's  way.  A  youth  who  plainly  under- 
[401  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


stood  the  mystery  of  motors  clambered  up, 
nimble  as  a  monkey,  taking  seat  and  wheel. 
Another  mounted  alongside  of  him  and  rolled 
up  a  magazine  to  make  a  coaching  horn  of  it. 
Another  and  yet  another  followed,  until  a  cush 
ioned  space  designed  for  two  only  held  four. 
As  pirates  aforetime  have  boarded  a  wallowing 
galleon  the  rest  of  the  crew  boarded  the  body  of 
the  bus.  They  entered  by  door  or  by  window, 
whichever  chanced  to  be  handier,  first  firing  their 
hand  baggage  in  with  a  splendid  disregard  of 
consequences. 

In  less  than  no  time  at  all,  to  tallyho  toot- 
ings,  to  whoops  and  to  yells  and  to  snatches  of 
melody,  the  Hotal  Balboa  bus  was  rolling 
through  a  startled  business  district,  bearing  in 
it,  upon  it  and  overflowing  from  it  full  twice 
as  many  fares  as  its  builder  had  imagined  it 
conceivably  would  ever  contain  when  he 
planned  its  design  and  its  accommodations. 
Side  by  side  on  the  floor  at  its  back  door  with 
feet  out  in  space,  were  jammed  together  Mr.  J. 
Henry  Birdseye  and  the  aforesaid  blocky  chief 
tain  of  the  band.  Teams  checked  up  as  the 
caravan  rolled  on.  Foot  travellers  froze  in 
their  tracks  to  stare  at  the  spectacle.  Birds- 
eye  saw  them.  They  saw  Birdseye.  And  he 
saw  that  they  saw  and  felt  that  be  the  future 
what  it  might,  life  for  him  could  never  bring  a 
greater,  more  triumphant,  more  exultant  mo 
ment  than  this. 

"Is  that  the  opera  house  right  ahead?"  in- 
[402  ] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


quired  his  illustrious  mate  as  the  bus  jounced 
round  the  corner  of  Lattimer  Street. 

"No,  that's  the  new  Second  National  Bank," 
explained  Mr.  Birdseye  between  jolts.  "The 
opera  house  is  four  doors  further  down — see, 
right  there — just  next  to  where  that  sign  says 
'Tascott  &  Nutt,  Hardware.' " 

Simultaneously  those  who  rode  in  front  and 
atop  must  likewise  have  read  the  sign  of  Tas- 
cott  &  Nutt.  For  the  bus,  as  though  on  signal, 
swerved  to  the  curb  before  this  establishment 
and  stopped  dead  short,  and  in  chorus  a  dozen 
strong  voices  called  for  Mr.  Nutt,  continuing 
to  call  until  a  plump,  middle-aged  gentleman 
in  his  shirt  sleeves  issued  from  the  interior  and 
crossed  the  sidewalk,  surprise  being  writ  large 
upon  his  face.  When  he  had  drawn  near 
enough,  sinewy  hands  stretched  forth  and 
pounced  upon  him,  and  as  the  bus  resumed  its 
journey  he  most  unwillingly  was  dragged  at  an 
undignified  dogtrot  alongside  a  rear  wheel  while 
strange,  tormenting  questions  were  shouted 
down  at  him: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Nutt,  how's  your  dear  old  coco?" 

"And  how's  your  daughter  Hazel? — charm 
ing  girl,  Hazel!" 

"And  your  son,  Philip  Bertram?  Don't  tell 
me  the  squirrels  have  been  after  that  dear  Phil 
Bert  again!" 

"You'll  be  careful  about  the  chipmunks  this 
summer,  won't  you,  Mr.  Nutt — for  our  sakes?" 

"Old  Man  Nutt  is  a  good  old  soul." 

[  403  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


But  this  last  was  part  of  a  song,  and  not  a 
question  at  all. 

The  victim  wrested  himself  free  at  last  and 
stood  in  the  highroad  speechless  with  indigna 
tion.  Lack  of  breath  was  likewise  a  contribut 
ing  factor.  Mr.  Birdseye  observed,  as  they 
drew  away  from  the  panting  figure,  that  the 
starting  eyes  of  Mr.  Nutt  were  fixed  upon  him 
recognisingly  and  accusingly,  and  realised  that 
he  was  in  some  way  being  blamed  for  the  dis 
comfiture  of  that  solid  man  and  that  he  had 
made  a  sincere  enemy  for  life.  But  what  cared 
he?  Meadow  larks,  golden  breasted,  sat  in  his 
short  ribs  and  sang  to  his  soul. 

And  now  they  had  drawn  up  at  the  Hotel  Bal 
boa,  and  with  Birdseye  still  in  the  van  they  had 
piled  off  and  were  swirling  through  the  lobby 
to  splash  up  against  the  bulkhead  of  the  clerk's 
desk,  behind  which,  with  a  wide  professional 
smile  of  hospitality  on  his  lips,  Head  Clerk  Ollie 
Bates  awaited  their  coming  and  their  pleasure. 

"You  got  our  wire?"  demanded  of  him  the 
young  manager.  "Rooms  all  ready?" 

"Rooms  all  ready,  Mister ' 

"Fine  and  dandy!  We'll  go  right  up  and 
wash  up  for  lunch.  Here's  the  list — copy  the 
names  onto  the  register  yourself.  Where's  the 
elevator?  Oh,  there  it  is.  All  aboard,  boys! 
No,  wait  a  minute,"  countermanded  this  young 
commander  who  forgot  nothing,  as  he  turned  and 
confronted  Mr.  Birdseye.  "Before  parting,  we 
will  give  three  cheers  for  our  dear  friend,  guide 
[  404  ] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 

and  well-wisher,  Colonel  Birdseye  Maple.  All 
together: 

"Wheel   Wheel  WHEE!" 

The  last  and  loudest  Whee  died  away;  the 
troupe  charged  through  and  over  a  skirmish 
line  of  darky  bell  hops;  they  stormed  the  ele 
vator  cage.  Half  in  and  half  out  of  it  their 
chief  paused  to  wave  a  hand  to  him  whom  they 
had  just  honoured. 

"See  you  later,  Colonel,"  he  called  across  the 
intervening  space.  "You  said  you'd  be  there 
when  we  open  up,  you  know." 

"I'll  be  there,  Swifty,  on  a  front  seat!" 
pledged  Mr.  Birdseye  happily. 

The  overloaded  elevator  strained  and  started 
and  vanished  upward,  vocal  to  the  last.  In 
the  comparative  calm  which  ensued  Mr.  Birds- 
eye,  head  well  up,  chest  well  out,  and  thumbs  in 
the  arm  openings  of  a  distended  waistcoat, 
lounged  easily  but  with  the  obvious  air  of  a 
conqueror  back  toward  the  desk  and  Mr.  Ollie 
Bates. 

"Some  noisy  bunch!"  said  Mr.  Bates  admir 
ingly.  "Say,  J.  Henry,  where  did  they  pick 
you  up?" 

"They  didn't  pick  me  up,  I  picked  them  up 
— met  'em  over  at  Barstow  and  rode  in  with 
'em." 

"Seems  like  it  didn't  take  you  long  to  make 
friends  with  'em,"  commented  Mr.  Bates. 

"It  didn't  take  me  half  a  minute.  Easiest 
bunch  to  get  acquainted  with  you  ever  saw  in 

[405  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


your  life,  Ollie.  And  kidders?  Well,  they 
wrote  kidding — that's  all — words  and  music. 
I  wish  you  could  a-seen  them  stringing  old  man 
'Lonzo  Nutt  down  the  street!  I  like  to  died!" 
He  unbent  a  trifle;  after  all,  Mr.  Bates  was  an 
old  friend.  "Say,  Ollie,  that  gang  won't  do  a 
thing  to  our  little  old  scrub  team  this  afternoon, 
with  Long  Leaf  Pinderson  pitching.  I  saw  him 
in  action — with  oranges.  He " 

"Say,  listen,  J.  Henry,"  broke  in  Mr.  Bates. 
"Who  in  thunder  do  you  think  that  gang  is 
you've  been  associating  with?" 

"Think  it  is?  Who  would  it  be  but  the 
Moguls?" 

"Moguls?" 

A  convulsion  seized  and  overcame  Mr.  Bates. 
He  bent  double,  his  distorted  face  in  his  hands, 
his  shoulders  heaving,  weird  sounds  issuing  from 
his  throat.  Then  lifting  his  head,  he  opened 
that  big  mouth  of  his,  afflicting  the  adjacent  air 
with  raucous  and  discordant  laughter. 

"Moguls!  Moguls!  Say,  you  need  to  have 
your  head  looked  into.  Why,  J.  Henry,  the  Mo 
guls  came  in  on  the  twelve-forty-five  and  Nick 
Cornwall  and  the  crowd  met  'em  and  they're 
down  to  the  Hotel  Esplanade  right  this  minute, 
I  reckon.  We  tried  to  land  'em  for  the  Bal 
boa,  but  it  seemed  like  they  wanted  a  quiet 
hotel.  Well,  they'll  have  their  wish  at  the 
Esplanade!" 

"Then  who — then  who  are  these?" 

It  was  the  broken,  faltering  accent  of  Mr. 

[406] 


PERSONA     AU      GRATIN 


Birdseye,  sounded  wanly  and  as  from  a  long 
way  off. 

"These?  Why,  it's  the  College  Glee  Club 
from  Chickasaw  Tech.,  down  in  Alabama,  that's 
going  to  give  a  concert  at  the  opera  house  to 
night.  And  you  thought  all  the  time  you  were 
with  the  Moguls?  Well,  you  poor  simp!" 

In  addition  to  simp  Mr.  Bates  also  used  the 
words  boob,  sucker,  chunk  of  Camembert  and 
dub  in  this  connection.  But  it  is  doubtful  if 
Mr.  Birdseye  heard  him  now.  A  great  roaring, 
as  of  dashing  cataracts  and  swirling  rapids,  filled 
his  ears  as  he  fled  away,  blindly  seeking  some 
sanctuary  wherein  to  hide  himself  from  the  gaze 
of  mortal  man. 

Remaining  to  be  told  is  but  little;  but  that 
little  looms  important  as  tending  to  prove  that 
truth  sometimes  is  stranger  than  fiction.  With 
Swifty  Megrue  coaching,  with  Magnus,  the  Big 
Chief,  backstopping,  with  Pinderson,  master  of 
the  spitball,  in  the  box  twirling,  nevertheless 
and  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  the  Anne- 
burg  team  that  day  mopped  up,  the  score 
standing: 

R   H   E 

Anneburg 691 

Moguls 472 


[407] 


ON  this  voyage  the  Mesopotamia  was 
to  sail  at  midnight.  It  was  now,  to  be 
precise  about  it,  eleven  forty-five 
P.M.  and  some  odd  seconds;  and  they 
were  wrestling  the  last  of  the  heavy  luggage 
aboard.  The  Babel-babble  that  distinguishes 
a  big  liner's  departure  was  approaching  its  cli 
max  of  acute  hysteria,  when  two  well-dressed, 
youngish  men  joined  the  wormlike  column  of 
eleventh-hour  passengers  mounting  a  portable 
bridge  labelled  First  Cabin  which  hyphenated 
the  strip  of  dark  water  between  ship  and  shore. 
They  were  almost  the  last  persons  to  join  the 
line,  coming  in  such  haste  along  the  dock  that 
the  dock  captain  on  duty  at  the  foot  of  the  can 
vas-sided  gangway  let  them  pass  without  ques 
tion. 

Except  that  these  two  men  were  much  of  a 
size  and  at  a  first  glance  rather  alike  in  general 
aspect;  and  except  that  one  of  them,  the  rear 
most,   bore   two   bulging   handbags   while   the 
[408] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


other  kept  his  hands  muffled  in  a  grey  tweed 
ulster  that  lay  across  his  arms,  there  was  noth 
ing  about  them  or  either  of  them  to  distinguish 
them  from  any  other  belated  pair  of  men  in 
that  jostling  procession  of  the  flurried  and  the 
hurried.  Oh,  yes,  one  of  them  had  a  moustache 
and  the  other  had  none. 

Indian  file  they  went  up  the  gangway  and 
past  the  second  officer,  who  stood  at  the  head 
of  it;  and  still  tandem  they  pushed  and  were 
pushed  along  through  the  jam  upon  the  deck. 
The  second  man,  the  one  who  bore  the  hand 
bags,  gave  them  over  to  a  steward  who  had 
jumped  forward  when  he  saw  them  coming. 
He  hesitated  then,  looking  about  him. 

"Come  on,  it's  all  right,"  said  the  first  man. 

"How  about  the  tickets?  Don't  we  have  to 
show  them  first?"  inquired  the  other. 

"No,  not  now,"  said  his  companion.  "We 
can  go  direct  to  our  stateroom."  The  same 
speaker  addressed  the  steward: 

"D-forty,"  he  said  briskly. 

"Quite  right,  sir,"  said  the  steward.  "D- 
forty.  Right  this  way,  sir;  if  you  please, 
sir." 

With  the  dexterity  born  of  long  practice  the 
steward,  burdened  though  he  was,  bored  a  path 
for  himself  and  them  through  the  crowd.  He 
led  them  from  the  deck,  across  a  corner  of  a 
big  cabin  that  was  like  a  hotel  lobby,  and  down 
flights  of  broad  stairs  from  B-deck  to  C  and 
from  C-deck  to  D,  and  thence  aft  along  a  nar- 

[409] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


row  companionway  until  he  came  to  a  cross 
hall  where  another  steward  stood. 

"Two  gentlemen  for  D-forty,"  said  their 
guide.  Surrendering  the  handbags  to  this  other 
functionary,  he  touched  his  cap  and  vanished 
into  thin  air,  magically,  after  the  custom  of 
ancient  Arabian  genii  and  modern  British  steam 
ship  servants. 

'  'Ere  you  are,  sirs,"  said  the  second  steward. 
He  opened  the  door  of  a  stateroom  and  stood 
aside  to  let  them  in.  Following  in  behind  them 
he  deposited  the  handbags  in  mathematical 
alignment  upon  the  floor  and  spoke  a  warning: 
"We'll  be  leavin'  in  a  minute  or  two  now, 
but  it's  just  as  well,  sir,  to  keep  your  stateroom 
door  locked  until  we're  off — thieves  are  about 
sometimes  in  port,  you  know,  sir.  Was  there 
anything  else,  sir?"  He  addressed  them  in  the 
singular,  but  considered  them,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  plural.  "I'm  the  bedroom  steward,  sir," 
he  added  in  final  explanation. 

The  passenger  who  had  asked  concerning  the 
tickets  looked  about  him  curiously,  as  though 
the  interior  arrangement  of  a  steamship  state 
room  was  to  him  strange. 

"So  you're  the  bedroom  steward,"  he  said. 
"What's  your  name?" 

"Lawrence,  sir." 

"Lawrence  what?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  said  the  steward, 
looking  puzzled. 

"He  wants  to  know  your  first  name,"  ex- 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


plained  the  other  prospective  occupant  of  D- 
forty.  This  man  had  sat  himself  down  upon 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  still  with  his  grey  ulster 
folded  forward  across  his  arms  as  though  the 
pockets  held  something  valuable  and  must  be 
kept  in  a  certain  position,  just  so,  to  prevent 
the  contents  spilling  out. 

"  'Erbert  Lawrence,  sir,  thank  you,  sir,"  said 
the  steward,  his  face  clearing,  "I'll  be  'andy 
if  you  ring,  sir."  He  backed  out.  "Nothing 
else,  sir?  I'll  see  to  your  'eavy  luggage  in  the 
mornin'.  Will  there  be  any  trunks  for  the 
stateroom?" 

"No  trunks,"  said  the  man  on  the  bed. 
"Just  some  suitcases.  They  came  aboard  just 
ahead  of  us,  I  think." 

"Right,  sir,"  said  the  accommodating  Law 
rence.  "I'll  get  your  tickets  in  the  morning 
and  take  them  to  the  purser,  if  you  don't  mind. 
Thank  you,  sir."  And  with  that  he  bowed 
himself  out  and  was  gone. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  this  thoughtful  and 
accommodating  servitor  the  fellow  travellers 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  steadily, 
much  as  though  they  might  be  sharers  of  a 
common  secret  that  neither  cared  to  mention 
even  between  themselves.  The  one  who  stood 
spoke  first: 

"I  guess  I'll  go  up  and  see  her  pull  out,"  he 
said.  "I've  never  seen  a  ship  pull  out;  it's  a 
new  thing  to  me.  Want  to  go?" 

The  man  nursing  the  ulster  shook  his  head. 
[411] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"All  right,  then,"  said  the  first.  He  pitched 
his  own  topcoat,  which  he  had  been  carrying 
under  his  arm,  upon  the  lone  chair.  "I'll  be 
back  pretty  soon."  He  glanced  keenly  at  the 
one  small  porthole,  looked  about  the  stateroom 
once  more,  then  stepped  across  the  threshold 
and  closed  the  door.  The  lock  clicked. 

Left  alone,  the  other  man  sat  for  a  half  minute 
or  so  as  he  was,  with  his  head  tilted  forward  in 
an  attitude  of  listening.  Then  he  stood  up 
and  with  a  series  of  shrugging,  lifting  motions, 
jerked  the  ulster  forward  so  that  it  slipped 
through  the  loop  of  his  arms  upon  the  floor. 
Had  the  efficient  Lawrence  returned  at  that 
moment  it  is  safe  to  say  he  would  have  sustained 
a  profound  shock,  although  it  is  equally  safe 
to  say  he  would  have  made  desperate  efforts  to 
avoid  showing  his  emotions.  The  man  was 
manacled.  Below  his  white  shirt-cuffs  his  wrists 
were  encircled  by  snug-fitting,  shiny  bracelets 
of  steel  united  by  a  steel  chain  of  four  short 
links.  That  explained  his  rather  peculiar  way 
of  carrying  his  ulster  and  his  decidedly  awkward 
way  of  ridding  himself  of  it. 

He  stepped  across  the  room  and  with  his 
coupled  hands  tried  the  knob  of  the  door.  The 
knob  turned,  but  the  bolt  had  been  set  from 
the  outside.  He  was  locked  in.  With  his  foot 
he  dragged  forward  a  footstool,  kicking  it  close 
up  against  the  panels  so  that  should  any  person 
coming  in  open  the  door  suddenly,  the  stool 
would  retard  that  person's  entrance  for  a  mo- 
[412] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 

ment  anyway.  He  faced  about  then,  consider 
ing  his  next  move.  The  circular  pane  of  thick 
glass  in  the  porthole  showed  as  a  black  target 
in  the  white  wall;  through  it  only  blankness 
was  visible.  D-deck  plainly  was  well  down  in 
the  ship's  hull,  below  the  level  of  promenades 
and  probably  not  very  far  above  the  waterline. 
Nevertheless,  the  handcuffed  man  crossed  over 
and  drew  the  short  silken  curtains  across  the 
window,  making  the  seclusion  of  his  quarters 
doubly  secure. 

Now,  kneeling  upon  the  floor,  he  undid  the 
hasps  of  the  two  handbags,  opened  them  and 
began  rummaging  in  their  cluttered  depths. 
Doing  all  these  things,  he  moved  with  a  sure- 
ness  and  celerity  which  showed  that  he  had 
worn  his  bonds  for  an  appreciable  space  of 
time  and  had  accustomed  himself  to  using  his 
two  hands  upon  an  operation  where,  unham 
pered,  he  might  have  used  one  or  the  other, 
but  not  both  at  once.  His  chain  clinked  briskly 
as  he  felt  about  in  the  valises.  From  them  he 
first  got  out  two  travelling  caps — one  a  dark 
grey  cap,  the  other  a  cap  of  rather  a  gaudy 
check  pattern;  also,  a  plain  razor,  a  safety  razor 
and  a  box  of  cigars.  He  examined  the  safety 
razor  a  moment,  then  slipped  it  back  into  the 
flap  pocket  where  it  belonged;  took  a  cigar  from 
the  box  and  put  the  box  back  into  the  grip; 
tried  on  first  one  of  the  travelling  caps  and 
then  the  other,  and  returned  them  to  the  places 
from  which  he  had  taken  them;  and  reclosed 
[  413  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


and  refastened  the  grips  themselves.  But  he 
took  the  other  razor  and  dropped  it  in  a  cer 
tain  place,  close  down  to  the  floor  at  the  foot 
of  one  of  the  beds. 

He  shoved  the  footstool  away  from  the  door, 
and,  after  dusting  off  his  knees,  he  went  and 
stood  at  the  porthole  gazing  out  into  the  night 
through  a  cranny  in  the  curtains.  The  ship  no 
longer  nuzzled  up  alongside  the  dock  like  a 
great  sucking  pig  under  the  flanks  of  an  even 
greater  mother-sow;  she  appeared  to  stand  still 
while  the  dock  seemed  to  be  slipping  away 
from  her  rearward;  but  the  man  who  looked 
out  into  the  darkness  was  familiar  enough  with 
that  illusion.  With  his  manacled  hands  crossed 
upon  his  waistcoat  and  the  cigar  hanging  un- 
lighted  between  his  lips,  he  watched  until  the 
liner  had  turned  and  was  swinging  down 
stream,  heading  for  the  mouth  of  the  river  and 
the  bay. 

He  lit  the  cigar,  then,  and  once  more  sat  him 
self  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed.  He  puffed 
away  steadily.  His  head  was  bent  forward 
and  his  hands  dangled  between  his  knees  in 
such  ease  as  the  snugness  of  the  bracelets  and 
the  shortness  of  the  chain  permitted.  Looking 
in  at  him  you  would  have  said  he  was  planning 
something;  that  he  was  considering  various 
problems.  He  was  still  there  in  that  same 
hunching  position,  but  the  cigar  had  burned 
down  two-thirds  of  its  length,  when  the  lock 
snicked  a  warning  and  his  companion  re-entered, 
[  414  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


bearing  a  key  with  which  he  relocked  the  door 
upon  the  inner  side. 

"Well,"  said  the  newcomer,  "we're  on  our 
way."  There  was  no  reply  to  this.  He  took  off 
his  derby  hat  and  tossed  it  aside,  and  began 
unbuttoning  his  waistcoat. 

"Making  yourself  comfortable,  eh?"  he  went 
on  as  though  trying  to  manufacture  conversa 
tion.  The  manacled  one  didn't  respond.  He 
merely  canted  his  head,  the  better  to  look  into 
the  face  of  his  travel  mate. 

"Say,  look  here,"  demanded  the  new  arrival, 
his  tone  and  manner  changing.  "What's  the 
use,  your  nursing  that  grouch?" 

Coming  up  the  gangway,  twenty  minutes  be 
fore,  they  might  have  passed,  at  a  casual  glance, 
for  brothers.  Viewed  now  as  they  faced  each 
other  in  the  quiet  of  this  small  room  such  a  mis 
take  could  not  have  been  possible.  They  did 
not  suggest  brothers;  for  all  that  they  were 
much  the  same  in  build  and  colouring  they  did 
not  even  suggest  distant  cousins.  About  the 
sitting  man  there  were  abundant  evidences  of 
a  higher  and  more  cultured  organism  than  the 
other  possessed;  the  difference  showed  in  cos 
tume,  in  manner,  in  speech.  Even  wearing 
handcuffs  he  displayed,  without  trying  to  do 
so,  a  certain  superiority  in  poise  and  assurance. 
In  a  way  his  companion  seemed  vaguely  aware 
of  this.  It  seemed  to  make  him — what  shall  I 
say? — uneasy;  maybe  a  bit  envious;  possibly 
arousing  in  him  the  imitative  instinct.  Judging 

[415] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


of  him  by  his  present  aspect  and  the  intonations 
of  his  voice,  a  shrewd  observer  of  men  and  mo 
tives  might  have  said  that  he  was  amply  satis 
fied  with  the  progress  of  the  undertaking  which 
he  had  now  in  hand,  but  that  he  lately  had 
ceased  to  be  entirely  satisfied  with  himself. 

"Say,  Bronston,"  he  repeated,  "I  tell  you 
there's  no  good  nursing  the  grouch.  I  haven't 
done  anything  all  through  this  matter  except 
what  I  thought  was  necessary.  I've  acted  that 
way  from  the  beginning,  ain't  I?'* 

"Have  you  heard  me  complain?"  parried  the 
gyved  man.  He  blew  out  a  mouthful  of  smoke. 

"No,  I  haven't,  not  since  you  made  the  first 
kick  that  day  I  found  you  out  in  Denver.  But 
a  fellow  can't  very  well  travel  twenty-five  hun 
dred  miles  with  another  fellow,  sharing  the  same 
stateroom  with  him  and  all  that,  without  guess 
ing  what's  in  the  other  fellow's  mind." 

There  was  another  little  pause. 

"Well,"  said  the  man  upon  the  bed,  "we've 
got  this  far.  What's  the  programme  from  this 
point  on  regarding  these  decorations?"  He 
raised  his  hands  to  indicate  what  he  meant. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about," 
answered  the  other.  "The  rest  of  the  folks  on 
this  boat  don't  know  anything  about  us — not 
a  blessed  thing.  The  officers  don't  know — nor 
the  crew,  nor  any  of  the  passengers,  I  reckon. 
To  them  we're  just  two  ordinary  Americans 
crossing  the  ocean  together  on  business  or 
pleasure.  You  give  me  your  promise  not  to 
[416] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


make  any  breaks  of  any  sort,  and  I'll  take  those 
things  off  you  and  not  put  them  on  again  until 
just  before  we  land.  You  know  I  want  to  make 
this  trip  as  easy  as  I  can  for  you." 

"What  earthly  difference  would  it  make 
whether  I  gave  you  my  promise  or  not?  Sup 
pose,  as  you  put  it,  I  did  make  a  break?  Where 
would  I  break  for  out  in  the  middle  of  the  At 
lantic  Ocean?  Are  you  still  afraid  of  yourself?" 

"Certainly  not;  certainly  I  ain't  afraid.  At 
that,  you've  been  back  and  forth  plenty  of 
times  across  the  ocean,  and  you  know  all  the 
ropes  on  a  ship  and  I  don't.  Still,  I  ain't  afraid. 
But  I'd  like  to  have  your  promise." 

"I  won't  give  it,"  said  he  of  the  handcuffs 
promptly.  "I'm  through  with  making  offers 
to  you.  Four  days  ago  when  you  caught  up 
with  me,  I  told  you  I  would  go  with  you  and 
make  no  resistance — make  no  attempt  to  get 
away  from  you — if  you'd  only  leave  my  limbs 
free.  You  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  I  was  will 
ing  to  waive  extradition  and  go  back  without 
any  fuss  or  any  delay,  in  order  to  keep  my 
people  in  this  country  from  rinding  out  what  a 
devil's  mess  I'd  gotten  myself  into  over  on  the 
other  side.  You  knew  I  was  not  really  a  crim 
inal,  that  I'd  done  nothing  at  all  which  an 
American  court  would  construe  as  a  crime.  You 
knew  that  because  I  was  an  American  the  Brit 
ish  courts  would  probably  be  especially  hard 
upon  me.  And  you  knew  too — you  found  that 
part  out  for  yourself  without  my  telling  you— 
[417] 


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that  I  was  intending  to  go  back  to  England 
at  the  first  chance.  You  knew  that  all  I  needed 
was  a  chance  to  get  at  certain  papers  and  docu 
ments  and  produce  them  in  open  court  to  prove 
that  I  was  being  made  a  scapegoat;  you  knew 
that  if  I  had  just  two  days  free  on  British  soil, 
in  which  to  get  the  books  from  the  place  those 
lying  partners  of  mine  hid  them,  I  could  save 
myself  from  doing  penal  servitude.  That  was 
why  I  meant  to  go  back  of  my  own  accord. 
That  was  why  I  offered  to  give  you  my  word 
of  honour  that  I  would  not  attempt  to  get  away. 
Did  you  listen?  No!" 

"Well,  didn't  I  make  the  whole  thing  as  easy 
for  you  as  I  could?"  protested  his  companion. 
He  spoke  as  if  in  self-defence,  or  at  least  in 
extenuation. 

"Easy?  Didn't  you  put  these  things  on  me? 
Haven't  I  worn  them  every  minute  since  then, 
awake  or  asleep,  except  when  I  was  dressing  or 
undressing?" 

"What's  the  use  of  going  into  all  that  all  over 
again?  This  was  too  big  a  case  for  me  to  be 
taking  any  risks.  I'd  had  a  hard  enough  job 
locating  you;  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose  you. 
Let  me  ask  you  a  few  questions:  Didn't  we 
travel  all  the  way  from  Denver  in  a  stateroom, 
so  that  outside  of  the  conductors  and  a  couple 
of  porters  there  wasn't  a  soul  knew  you  was 
in  trouble?  Didn't  I  show  you  how  to  carry 
that  overcoat  over  your  arms  when  we  were 
changing  cars  at  Chicago,  and  again  coming 
[418] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


across  New  York  to-night,  so's  nobody  would 
catch  on?  Didn't  I  steer  clear  of  reporters  all 
along  the  line?  Didn't  I  keep  it  all  a  secret 
when  I  was  sending  the  wire  on  ahead  to  book 
the  passage?" 

He  paused;  then  remembered  something  else: 
"Didn't  I  go  to  the  trouble  of  buying  a 
lighter  pair  of  cuffs  than  the  ones  I  usually  use 
and  having  an  extra  link  set  in  the  chain  so  as 
to  keep  your  arms  from  cramping,  wearing 
them?  Yes,  I  did — I  did  all  those  things  and 
you  can't  deny  it. 

"Nobody  on  this  boat  suspects  anything," 
he  went  on.  "Nobody  here  knows  you're 
Bronston,  wanted  in  London  for  that  Atlas  In 
vestment  Company  swindle,  and  I'm  Keller, 
chief  operative  for  the  Sharkey  Agency.  So  far 
as  anybody  else  knows  we're  just  Mr.  Brown 
and  Mr.  Cole,  a  couple  of  friends  travelling  to 
gether.  Until  the  day  we  land  over  there  on 
the  other  side  you  can  keep  on  being  Mr.  Brown 
and  I'll  keep  on  being  Mr.  Cole.  I'll  keep  this 
stateroom  door  locked  at  night  just  to  be  on 
the  safe  side.  And  seeing  as  we've  got  seats 
together  at  the  same  table  I  guess  we'd  better 
make  a  point  of  taking  our  meals  together  at 
the  same  time.  Otherwise,  you  can  do  just 
what  you  please  and  go  where  you  please  and 
I  won't  bother  you.  These  folks  on  this  boat 
will  think  we're  just  a  couple  of  pretty  close 
friends."  He  fished  a  key  ring  out  of  his  pocket, 
selected  a  certain  key  and  bent  over  the  other 
[419] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


man.  "Here,  hold  your  hands  up  for  a  minute. 
You  ought  to  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  those 
darbies.  There!" 

He  lifted  the  opened  bracelets  off  his  pris 
oner's  wrists  and  pitched  them,  clinking,  upon 
the  bedcover. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  said  the  freed 
Bronston.  "But  remember,  I've  had  my  say. 
I'm  making  no  pledges,  now  or  hereafter." 
With  his  fingers,  which  were  long  and  slender, 
he  chafed  his  flesh  where  the  steel  had  bruised 
it  red. 

"Oh,  all  right,  all  right,"  answered  Keller; 
"I'm  willing  to  take  the  chance — although 
there  ain't  really  any  chance  to  take.  I'll  get 
these  things  out  of  sight  first  thing." 

He  picked  up  the  handcuffs  and  dropped 
them  into  a  pocket  of  his  ulster  where  it  lay 
on  the  one  chair  in  the  room,  and  wadded  a 
handkerchief  down  into  the  pocket  upon  them. 
"Now,  then,  everything  is  shipshape  and  proper. 
There's  no  reason  why  we  can't  be  pals  for 
three  or  four  days  anyway.  And  now  what  do 
you  say  to  turning  in  and  getting  a  good  night's 
rest?  I'm  good  and  tired  and  I  guess  you  are 
too." 

Whistling  to  himself  like  a  man  well  satisfied 
with  the  latest  turn  in  a  difficult  situation,  he 
began  to  undress.  The  other  followed  suit. 
They  were  both  in  their  pajamas  and  both  were 
in  bed  and  the  lights  had  been  put  out  before 

Bronston  spoke: 

[420] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


"Mind  you,  Keller,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  fooled 
to  any  great  extent  by  this  change  in  attitude 
on  your  part." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Keller  sharply. 

"Well,"  said  Bronston,  "I  can't  help  but 
realise  that  you've  got  a  selfish  and  a  personal 
motive  of  your  own  for  doing  what  you've  just 
done.  You're  bound  to  know  that  if  the  truth 
about  us  were  to  get  out  the  people  on  this  boat 
probably  wouldn't  value  your  company  any 
higher  than  they'd  value  mine — maybe  not  so 
highly  as  they  might  value  mine." 

Keller  sat  up  in  bed. 

"I  don't  get  you,"  he  said.  "Just  what  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

"You're  a  private  detective,  aren't  you?" 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  demanded  Keller. 
"What's  wrong  with  my  being  a  private  de 
tective?" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,"  said 
Bronston,  suddenly  grown  drowsy.  He  settled 
his  head  down  in  the  pillow  and  rolled  over  on 
his  side,  turning  his  back  to  his  roommate. 
"Let's  go  to  sleep." 

Instantly  he  seemed  to  be  off;  he  began  draw 
ing  long,  heavy  breaths.  With  a  snort  Keller 
settled  down,  uttering  grumbled  protests  in  an 
injured  and  puzzled  tone.  Presently  he  slept, 
too,  with  the  choky  snores  of  a  very  weary  man. 

So  far  as  we  know  they  both  slept  the  sleep 
of  travel-worn  men  until  morning.  It  was 
seven  o'clock  and  the  sunlight  was  flooding  in 
[421  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


at  the  porthole  when  their  bathroom  steward 
knocked  upon  the  outer  panels  of  their  door,  at 
first  softly,  then  more  briskly.  When  they  had 
roused  and  answered  him,  he  told  them  that 
their  baths  were  ready  and  waiting  for  them; 
also  that  the  weather  was  fine  and  the  sea 
smooth.  It  was  Bronston  who  went  first  to 
the  bathroom.  He  had  come  back  and  was 
dressing  himself  when  Keller,  after  clearing  his 
throat  several  times,  reopened  a  subject  which 
seemingly  had  laid  uppermost  in  his  dormant 
mind  while  he  slept. 

"Say,  Bronston,"  he  began  in  an  aggrieved 
voice,  "what  made  you  say  what  you  said  just 
after  we  turned  in  last  night — about  private 
detectives,  you  know?" 

"Oh,  let  it  drop,"  answered  Bronston,  as 
though  the  topic  were  of  no  consequence. 

"No,"  pressed  Keller,  "I  won't  let  it  drop. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you  meant.  I  don't  care 
much  for  that  sort  of  talk." 

Bronston  had  his  shaving  kit  open  and  was 
soaping  his  cheeks  in  front  of  a  small  mirror  at 
a  stationary  washstand  in  the  corner  of  the 
room.  He  turned  with  the  lather  brush  in  his 
hand. 

"If  you  insist  then,"  he  said,  "I'll  tell  you 
what  I  meant.  If  the  facts  about  our  relation 
ship  should  get  out — if  the  truth  should  leak 
out  in  any  way — I'm  inclined  to  think  there 
might  be  some  sympathy  for  me  aboard  this 
ship.  People  are  apt  to  have  a  sympathy  for 
[422  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


any  man  who's  in  trouble  through  no  real  fault 
of  his  own,  especially  as  there  are  apt  to  be 
people  on  this  boat — Americans — who've  heard 
some  of  the  inside  history  of  this  trouble  I'm  in. 
They  might  believe  me  when  I  told  them  that 
I  was  an  innocent  party  to  the  transaction, 
especially  as  there  is  no  way,  as  things  stand 
now,  of  my  proving  my  innocence.  But  you're 
a  private  detective,  and  at  the  risk  of  wounding 
your  feelings  I'm  going  to  repeat  something 
which  you  probably  realise  already,  and  that 
is  that  people  at  large  don't  particularly  fancy 
a  person  of  your  calling  in  life.  No,  nor  the 
calling  either.  I  presume  you  remember,  don't 
you,  what  the  biggest  detective  in  America  said 
not  so  very  long  ago  in  a  signed  article?  He 
said  most  of  the  private  detective  agencies  were 
recruited  from  among  ex-convicts — said  a  big 
percentage  of  the  private  detectives  in  the 
United  States  were  jailbirds  and  evidence-fixers 
and  blackmailers  and  hired  thugs!" 

"I  don't  care  what  Burns  or  anybody  else 
said."  Keller's  voice  betokened  indignation. 
"I  may  not  have  had  as  much  education  as 
some  other  people,  but  I've  made  my  own  way 
in  the  world  and  I'm  no  crook,  nor  no  old  lag 
neither.  There's  nobody  got  anything  on  me. 
Besides,  unless  somebody  tells  'em,  how're 
they  going  to  know  what  line  of  business  I'm 
in,  any  more  than  thay'll  know,  just  from  look 
ing  at  you,  that  you're  on  your  way  back  to 

London  to  stand  trial  for  a  felony?" 

[423  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


"My  friend,"  said  Bronston  gently,  "every 
thing  about  you  spells  private  detective. 
You've  got  it  written  all  over  you  in  letters  a 
foot  high." 

"What  now,  for  instance,  gives  me  away?" 
There  was  incredulity  in  the  question,  but  also 
there  was  a  tinge  of  doubtfulness  too. 

"Everything  about  you,  or  nearly  everything, 
gives  you  away — your  clothes,  your  shoes,  your 
moustache.  But  particularly  it's  your  shoes 
and  your  moustache.  I  wonder  why  all  detec 
tives  wear  those  broad-toed,  heavy-soled 
shoes?"  he  added,  half  to  himself. 

"What's  wrong  with  my  moustache?"  asked 
Keller,  craning  to  contemplate  himself  over 
Bronston's  shoulder  in  the  mirror.  "Seems  to 
me  you  used  to  wear  a  moustache  yourself. 
The  description  that  was  sent  to  our  people 
said  you  wore  one,  and  your  not  wearing  it 
made  it  all  the  harder  for  me  to  trail  you  when 
I  was  put  on  the  case." 

"Oh,  I  cut  mine  off  months  ago,"  said  Bron 
ston,  "and  besides  it  was  always  a  modest, 
close-cropped  affair.  I  never  wore  the  ends  of 
my  moustache  turned  up  like  a  cow's  horns." 
He  glanced  at  Keller  quizzically.  "Honestly, 
aside  from  any  other  considerations,  I  think 
you'd  look  better  without  one." 

"Let's  drop  the  moustache  part,"  said  Keller, 
who  seemed  nettled.  "Tell  me,  what's  wrong 
with  my  clothes?" 

"To  be  frank,"  criticised  Bronston,  "you  run 
[424] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


just  a  bit  to  extremes.  There's  that  cap  you 
bought  yesterday  evening  when  we  stopped  at 
that  store  on  our  way  across  town.  It  struck 
me  as  being — well,  a  trifle  loud." 

"I  don't  see  anything  wrong  with  this  cap, 
if  you're  asking  me,"  said  Keller.  He  drew  it 
forth  from  his  opened  handbag  and  slipped  it 
on  his  head.  It  slipped  down  until  his  ears 
stopped  it;  its  owner  whistled  in  astonishment. 
"Yes,  by  gee!"  he  exclaimed,  "there  is  some 
thing  wrong  with  it  too — it's  too  large."  He 
drew  it  off  and  examined  the  little  tag  pasted 
in  the  crown.  "Why,  it's  a  full  half  size  too 
large."  He  turned  to  Bronston. 

"You  told  the  clerk  what  numbers  we  want 
ed.  Remember,  don't  you,  offering  to  attend 
to  that  while  I  was  getting  me  a  bathrobe,  so 
as  to  save  tune?  See  if  he  made  any  mistake 
in  yours?" 

Bronston  slid  on  the  cap  he  had  bought,  a 
plain  grey  one;  it  stuck  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  idiot  must  have  got 
the  sizes  twisted.  This  one  is  a  half  size  too 
small  for  me." 

"And  mine's  a  half  size  too  large,"  said 
Keller.  "I  suppose  we'll  have  to  trade." 

"There's  nothing  else  to  do,"  said  Bronston, 
"although  I  can't  say  I  fancy  this  plaid  design 
much." 

In  accordance  with  the  plan  of  Keller,  as 
stated  the  night  before,  they  went  to  break- 
f  ast  together  to  find  that  they  had  been  assigned 
[425  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


places  at  a  five-seated,  circular  table  on  the 
balcony  of  the  dining  saloon.  Their  tablemates 
were  an  elderly  couple,  who  said  little  to  each 
other  and  nothing  at  all  to  strangers,  and  a 
tall,  reserved,  exceedingly  silent  Englishman. 
The  indefinable  something  that  marked  these 
two  men  as  hailing  from  different  circles  and 
different  environments  was  accentuated  in  their 
table  manners.  Keller  ate  correctly  enough, 
but  there  was  a  suggestion  of  grossness  about 
him,  an  awkwardness  in  his  fashion  of  holding 
his  fork  while  he  cut  his  ham.  But  he  watched 
Bronston  closely,  and  before  the  end  of  the 
meal  had  begun  to  copy  Bronston's  method  of 
handling  a  fork. 

They  had  quit  the  dining  room  and  sought 
out  the  location  of  their  deck  chairs  when,  for 
the  first  time,  the  detective  seemed  to  become 
aware  that  Bronston's  cheeks  were  rosy  and 
smooth,  whereas  a  roughened  stubble  covered 
his  own  jowls.  "I  think  I'll  go  below  and  take 
a  shave,"  he  said,  running  the  palm  of  his  hand 
over  his  chops. 

"Use  my  safety,  if  you  feel  like  it,"  suggested 
Bronston  casually.  "There's  a  new  blade  in 
it." 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Bronston  invaded 
the  stateroom  to  get  a  pocketful  of  cigars,  Kel 
ler  stood  facing  the  mirror,  putting  on  his  collar 
and  tie. 

"I  couldn't  find  my  razor,"  he  said,  with  his 
head  turned  away  from  Bronston;  "I  must've 
[  426  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


left  it  on  that  Chicago  train.  And  yet  I'd  have 
sworn  I  put  it  into  my  valise.  So  I  had  to 
use  yours.  But  you  were  wrong  when  you  said 
it  had  a  new  blade  in  it.  If  that's  a  new  blade 
I'll  eat  it.  It  mighty  near  pulled  my  upper  lip 
off." 

"Your  upper  lip?"  echoed  Bronston  in 
stantly. 

"Sure,"  said  Keller.  There  was  a  touch  of 
embarrassment  in  his  tone  as  he  faced  Bron 
ston.  "I  took  your  advice  about  this  mous 
tache  of  mine — clipped  it  close  with  the  scissors 
and  then  gave  myself  the  twice-over  with  your 
safety."  His  upper  lip  showed  bare;  the  skin 
had  a  bleached  look  and  was  raw  from  the 
scraping  it  had  just  undergone. 

As  Keller  passed  out  of  the  room,  caressing 
the  place  where  his  moustache  had  been, 
Bronston  noted  that  Keller  had  made  other 
changes  in  his  person.  Keller  had  exchanged 
the  bright  green  tie  which  he  wore  at  breakfast 
for  a  dull  brown  bow;  and  he  had  put  on  a 
lighter  pair  of  shoes — patent-leather  shoes, 
with  thin  soles  and  buttoned  uppers.  His 
broad-toed,  heavy-soled  pair  showed  under  his 
bed  where  he  had  shoved  them. 

Conceding  the  weather  to  be  fair,  as  in  this 
instance  it  assuredly  was,  the  majority  of  the 
passengers  upon  a  big  liner  eastward  bound 
give  over  their  first  day  at  sea  to  getting  used 
to  their  new  and  strange  surroundings,  to  get- 
[427] 


LOCAL      COLOR 

ting  lost  in  various  odd  corners  of  the  ship  and 
finding  themselves  again,  to  asking  questions 
about  baggage  gone  astray,  to  wondering  why 
they  are  not  seasick.  As  regards  the  two  prin 
cipal  characters  of  this  narrative,  nothing  of 
interest  occurred  during  the  first  day  except 
that  Keller  went  below  late  in  the  afternoon 
to  take  a  nap,  and  that  shortly  before  dark, 
when  he  had  waked,  Bronston  limped  in  with 
a  look  of  pain  upon  his  face,  to  report  that  while 
watching  a  lifeboat  drill  he  had  got  a  foot  hurt. 

"A  clumsy  ass  of  a  coal  passer  dropped  his 
oar  and  hit  me  right  on  the  big  toe  with  the 
butt  of  it,"  he  explained.  "I  didn't  give  him 
away,  because  the  second  officer  was  right  there 
and  I  judged  he  would  have  given  the  poor 
devil  fits  for  being  so  careless.  But  it  hurts 
like  the  very  mischief." 

He  got  his  left  shoe  off  and  sat  for  a  bit 
caressing  the  bruised  member. 

"The  skin  isn't  broken  evidently,"  he  con 
tinued,  in  response  to  Keller's  inquiries  con 
cerning  the  extent  of  the  injury;  "but  there's 
some  swelling  and  plenty  of  soreness."  He 
started  to  put  his  shoe  back  on  his  stockinged 
foot,  but  halted  with  a  groan. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said  to  Keller,  "I'm 
going  to  wear  those  heavy  shoes  of  yours  for 
a  day  or  two.  They're  easier  than  mine  and 
broader  in  the  toe." 

"Help  yourself,"  agreed  Keller.  "Seeing  as 
we've  swapped  caps  we  might  as  well  swap 
[428  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


shoes  too.  Anyhow,  I  kind  of  like  this  pair 
I've  got  on,  even  if  they  do  pinch  a  little."  He 
contemplated  his  shining  extremities  admir 
ingly.  Shortly  afterward  they  went  up  to 
dinner.  After  dinner  Bronston  found  reason 
for  returning  to  the  stateroom.  Here  he  did 
a  strange  thing.  He  dropped  a  pair  of  perfectly 
good  shoes  out  of  the  porthole. 

Conceding  further  that  on  a  big  liner's  second 
day  out  the  weather  continues  fine,  the  Amer 
icans  among  the  first-cabin  passengers  begin 
making  acquaintances;  and,  under  official  guid 
ance,  go  on  trips  of  exploration  and  discovery 
to  the  engine  room  and  the  steerage  and  the 
steward's  domain.  Card  games  are  organised 
and  there  is  preliminary  talk  of  a  ship's  con 
cert.  The  British  travellers,  on  the  other  hand, 
continue  for  the  most  part  to  hold  themselves 
aloof.  This  also  was  true  of  the  second  day's 
passage  of  the  Mesopotamia. 

Keller — or  Cole,  to  use  the  name  which  he 
now  used — met  some  congenial  fellow  country 
men  in  the  smoking  room  and  played  bridge 
with  them  for  small  stakes  during  most  of  the 
afternoon.  Bronston,  who  apparently  did  not 
care  for  cards,  saw  his  warder  only  at  the  lunch 
hour,  preferring  to  spend  the  time  in  his 
steamer  chair  upon  the  deck,  enjoying  the  air, 
which  was  balmy  and  neither  too  warm  nor  yet 
too  cool,  but  just  right.  Presently  as  he  sat 
there  he  fell  into  a  conversation — which  was  at 
[429] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


first  desultory,  although  it  shortly  took  on  a 
more  animated  character — with  a  rather  fluffy 
young  lady  who  occupied  the  steamer  chair  next 
his  own.  She  dropped  a  book  which  she  had 
been  reading;  he  picked  it  up  and  returned  it 
to  her.  That  was  how  it  started,  at  first  with 
an  interchange  of  polite  commonplaces,  then 
with  a  running  bestowal  of  small  confidences 
on  the  part  of  the  young  lady,  who  proved  to 
be  talkative. 

By  bits  and  snatches  it  developed  that  her 
name  was  Miss  Lillian  Cartwright  and  that 
her  home  was  in  Evanston,  Illinois.  There 
were  several  other  Evanston  people  on  the 
boat — she  pointed  out  a  group  of  them  some 
distance  down  the  deck — but  she  was  not  trav 
elling  with  them.  She  was  travelling  with  her 
uncle,  Major  Slocum.  Perhaps  her  new  ac 
quaintance  had  heard  of  her  uncle,  Major  Slo 
cum?  He  was  a  prominent  attorney  in  Chi 
cago,  quite  a  prominent  attorney,  and  he  was 
also  on  the  staff  of  the  present  governor  of 
Illinois,  and  in  former  years  had  taken  a  deep 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  Illinois  National 
Guard. 

"Possibly  you  may  have  seen  his  name  in 
the  papers,"  she  said.  "Uncle  is  always  getting 
into  the  papers." 

Bronston  rather  thought  he  had  heard  the 

name.     Miss  Cartwright  talked  on.     This  was 

her  first  trip  at  sea.     She  had  expected  that 

she  would  be  seasick,  but  on  the  contrary  she 

[430] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


felt  splendid;  not  a  suggestion  of  seasickness  so 
far.  Really  she  felt  almost  disappointed — as 
though  she  had  been  cheated  out  of  something. 
But  seriously,  wasn't  the  sea  just  perfectly 
lovely?  She  loved  the  sea.  And  she  loved  the 
Mesopotamia  too;  it  was  so  big  and  so  roomy 
and  the  officers  were  so  polite;  and  even  the 
seamen  were  accommodating  about  answering 
questions.  She  was  always  going  to  travel  on 
the  Mesopotamia  after  this.  They — her  uncle 
and  she — were  on  their  way  to  Scotland  to  visit 
her  married  sister  who  lived  there.  It  wasn't 
certain  yet  whether  they  would  leave  the  ship 
at  Fishguard  and  run  up  to  London  for  a  day 
or  two,  or  go  straight  on  to  Liverpool  and 
from  there  take  the  train  for  Scotland  and  stop 
off  in  London  on  the  way  back.  Her  uncle 
rather  favoured  going  on  to  Liverpool.  Here 
Bronston  found  a  chance  to  slip  hi  a  word  or 
two. 

"I'm  sure  I've  noticed  your  uncle — tall,  isn't 
he,  and  distinguished  and  rather  military  look 
ing?  I  should  like  very  much  to  meet  him. 
You  might  introduce  him  to  me,  and  then  per 
haps  he  would  be  good  enough  to  introduce 
us  two  properly  to  each  other.  I  answer  to 
the  name  of  Brown."  He  stood  up  and  lifted 
his  cap.  "I  expect  to  be  back  in  a  little  while." 

The  plan  seemed  to  please  Miss  Cartwright. 
"That  would  be  fun,  wouldn't  it?"  she  said, 
as  Bronston  moved  off  up  the  deck. 

It  is  possible  that  she  repeated  to  her  uncle 
[431] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


what  Bronston — or  Brown — had  said.  For 
when  Bronston  happened  along  again  a  few 
minutes  later,  Major  Slocum  was  sitting  with 
his  niece,  and  upon  being  introduced,  arose  and 
clasped  Mr.  Bronston's  hand  with  a  warm 
cordiality.  The  Major  was  one  of  those  native- 
born  Demostheneses  with  a  stiff  spine  and  a 
fine  mane  of  rather  long,  iron-grey  hair.  His 
manner  of  speech  betrayed  him  instantly^  as  one 
addicted  to  after-dinner  oratory.  Instinctively, 
as  it  were,  one  gathered  that  his  favourite 
toast  was  The  Ladies — God  Bless  'Em. 

As  he  confided  to  his  niece  afterward,  the 
Major  found  this  Mr.  Brown  to  be  an  exceed 
ingly  well-mannered,  well-informed  person;  and 
indeed  the  conversation  did  cover  a  wide  range 
of  subjects  that  afternoon. 

It  first  took  on  a  briskened  tone  when  a  lone 
porpoise  came  tumbling  across  the  waves  to  race 
with  the  ship.  From  porpoises  the  talk  turned 
to  whales,  and  from  whales  to  icebergs,  and 
from  icebergs  to  disasters  at  sea,  and  from 
that  to  discipline  aboard  ship,  and  from 
that  to  discipline  in  the  army  and  in  the 
national  guard,  which  was  where  Major  Slocum 
shone.  Thence  very  naturally  it  drifted  to  a 
discussion  of  police  discipline  as  it  existed  in 
certain  of  the  larger  American  cities,  notably 
New  York  and  Chicago,  and  thence  to  police 
corruption  and  crime  matters  generally.  Here 
Mr.  Bronston,  who  had  until  now  been  third  in 
the  conversational  output,  displayed  a  consid- 
[432  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


erable  acquaintance  with  methods  of  crime  de 
tection.  He  knew  about  the  Bertillon  system 
and  about  finger-print  identifications,  and  what 
was  more  he  knew  how  to  talk  about  them — 
and  he  did.  There  are  two  classes  of  people  who 
are  interested  in  shop  talk  of  crime — those  who 
know  something  of  the  subject  and  those  who 
do  not.  Miss  Cartwright  and  Major  Slocum 
listened  attentively  to  most  of  what  the  young 
man  had  to  say,  and  both  professed  themselves 
as  having  been  deeply  entertained. 

It  followed,  quite  in  the  order  of  things,  there 
fore,  that  the  three  of  them  should  agree  to  meet 
in  the  lounge  after  dinner  and  take  their  coffee 
together.  They  did  meet  there,  and  the  evening 
was  made  to  pass  both  pleasantly  and  rapidly. 
The  Major,  who  told  quite  a  considerable  num 
ber  of  his  best  stories,  was  surprised  when  eleven 
o'clock  arrived.  Meanwhile,  Keller  played 
bridge  in  the  smoking  room.  He  didn't  turn  in 
until  after  midnight,  finding  Bronston  already 
in  bed. 

At  the  latter's  suggestion  they  breakfasted 
abed  the  following  morning;  and  so  the  forenoon 
was  well  spent  when  they  got  upon  deck.  Fine 
weather  continuing,  the  ship  ran  a  steady  course. 
The  side-to-side  motion  was  barely  perceptible. 
Having  finished  the  prescribed  morning  consti 
tutional — twelve  times  round  the  ship — Miss 
Cartwright  was  sitting  in  her  steamer-chair, 
feeling  just  a  wee  bit  lonely  and  finding  so 
smooth  a  crossing  just  a  trifle  monotonous, 
[433  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


when  Bronston  came  up,  looking  spick  and  span. 
She  preened  herself,  greeting  him  with  sprightly 
words,  and  when  after  a  few  minutes  of  small 
talk  he  offered  to  initiate  her  into  the  mys 
teries  of  horse  billiards,  up  on  the  boat  deck, 
she  accepted  the  invitation  instantly. 

They  went  up  and  the  young  lady  proved  an 
apt  and  willing  pupil.  There  on  the  boat  deck 
Major  Slocum  presently  found  them.  He  didn't 
care  to  play,  but  he  kept  score  for  them.  The 
Major  put  the  sonorous  emphasis  of  the  true 
orator's  delivery  into  everything  he  said;  his 
calling  off  of  the  count  invested  it  with  the 
solemnity  and  vocal  beauty  of  a  well-delivered 
ritual. 

Presently  when  the  game  was  over  and  they 
sat,  all  three,  side  by  side  upon  a  bench  in  the 
lee  of  one  of  the  huge  ventilator  funnels,  the 
younger  man  spoke  up  and  said  he  was  afraid 
Miss  Cartwright  must  be  getting  chilled  with 
out  a  wrap.  She  insisted  that  she  was  perfectly 
comfortable,  but  masterfully  declaring  that  she 
needed  better  protection  for  her  shoulders  than 
a  silken  blouse  and  a  light  jacket  he  got  up. 

"I'll  just  run  down  and  get  my  grey  ulster," 
he  said.  "I  think  I  left  it  in  my  chair." 

Leaving  uncle  and  niece  together  he  hurried 
below.  True  enough,  his  grey  ulster  dangled 
across  the  arm  of  the  steamer  chair,  but  after 
picking  it  up  he  made  a  trip  on  down  to  D-deck 
and  spent  perhaps  a  minute  in  his  stateroom 
with  the  door  closed.  No,  probably  it  wasn't 
[434] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


more  than  half  a  minute  that  he  spent  there. 
At  any  rate  he  was  back  upon  the  boat  deck 
almost  immediately,  holding  up  the  coat  while 
Miss  Cartwright  slipped  her  arms  into  the 
sleeves.  All  women  like  to  be  waited  on  and 
most  women  like  to  wear  masculine  garments 
of  one  sort  or  another.  He  buttoned  the  collar 
about  her  throat  and  she  smiled  up  at  him  her 
appreciation  of  his  thoughtfulness. 

"Aren't  men's  overcoats  just  adorable!"  she 
babbled;  "so  big  and  warm  and  comfy  and 
everything!  And  they  have  such  lovely  big 
pockets!  The  very  next  coat  I  get  is  going  to 
be  made  like  a  man's,  and  have  some  of  those 
nice  big  pockets  in  it."  She  shoved  her  hands 
deep  into  the  side  pockets  in  what  she  fondly 
conceived  to  be  a  mannish  manner. 

"Why,  what's  this?"  she  asked.  "There's 
something  heavy  and  jingly  in 

She  stopped  short,  for  the  owner  of  the  ulster 
was  looking  at  her  meaningly  and  shaking  his 
head  as  a  signal  for  silence. 

"What  did  you  say,  my  dear?"  inquired  her 
uncle  absently. 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  but  her  ringers 
continued  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  pocket, 
and  into  her  eyes  came  a  half-puzzled,  half- 
excited  look.  She  opened  her  lips  as  though  to 
speak,  then  closed  them  with  an  effort. 

Bronston  proposed  another  go  at  horse  bil 
liards — just  a  short  game  before  luncheon. 
Again  the  Major  volunteered  to  score  for  them. 
[435  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


The  game  was  still  going  on  when  Keller  ap 
peared.  He  stopped  within  easy  hailing  dis 
tance  of  the  trio. 

"About  ready  for  luncheon?"  he  called  out, 
addressing  Bronston. 

"Just  a  minute  or  so,"  answered  Bronston, 
and  went  on  showing  his  pupil  how  to  make  a 
certain  shot. 

Keller  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  deck. 
He  felt  rather  out  of  the  picture  somehow.  His 
appetite  was  active  too;  trust  the  North  Atlantic 
air  for  that.  He  took  a  turn  or  two  more, 
growing  hungrier  with  every  step.  Five  min 
utes  passed,  and  still  the  game  showed  no  sign 
of  breaking  up.  He  swung  about  and  ap 
proached  them. 

"Say,"  he  said,  seeking  to  put  a  subtle  shade 
of  meaning  into  his  words,  "I'd  like  to  go  to 
lunch — if  you  don't  mind." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Bronston;  "we'll  stop, 
then."  Keller  advanced  until  he  was  quite 
near  them.  As  he  did  so  he  became  aware  that 
Miss  Cartwright  was  staring  hard  at  him. 
Bronston,  all  of  a  sudden,  seemed  to  remember 
the  small  proprieties  of  the  occasion. 

"Miss  Cartwright,  Major  Slocum,"  he  said, 
"this  is  my — this  is  Mr. — "  he  hesitated  the 
merest  fraction  of  a  second — "Mr.  Cole,  who 
is  travelling  with  me  this  trip." 

Miss  Cartwright  nodded,  the  Major  bowed, 
Keller  pulled  off  his  cap.  They  descended  the 
steps  in  a  straggling  procession,  Miss  Cart- 
[436] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


wright  and  Bronston  being  in  front,  the  Major 
next  and  Keller  bringing  up  the  rear.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  Bronston  addressed  the  young 
lady. 

"I'll  relieve  you  of  my  coat  now,"  he  said. 
"I'm  afraid  you  did  find  it  rather  heavy."  He 
looked  straight  into  her  eyes  as  he  spoke  and 
touched  his  lips  with  a  forefinger.  She  nodded 
back  to  show  she  thoroughly  understood  the 
signal,  and  then  he  took  the  ulster  across  his 
arm  and  he  and  Keller  moved  on  ahead. 

"Look  here,  Bronston,"  grumbled  Keller 
when  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  Major 
and  his  niece,  "you  acted  kind  of  funny  up 
yonder.  It  looked  to  me  like  you  didn't  care 
much  about  introducing  me  to  your  swell 
friends." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  apologised  Bronston, 
"I  forgot  for  the  moment  what  your  travelling 
name  was — couldn't  remember  whether  it  was 
Cole,  or  something  else.  That's  why  I  hung 
fire.  It  did  make  the  situation  a  bit  awkward, 
didn't  it?  I'm  sorry." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Keller;  "that  explains 
it.  But  I  was  a  little  sore  just  for  a  minute." 

At  the  door  leading  into  the  first  cross  hall 
Bronston  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder.  Miss 
Cartwright  and  her  uncle  were  not  following 
them.  They  had  halted  upon  an  untenanted 
stretch  of  deck,  and  the  young  woman  was 
saying  something  to  her  uncle  and  accenting 
with  gestures  what  she  said.  Her  hands  moved 
[437] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


with  the  briskness  which  generally  accompanies 
an  eager  disclosure  of  important  tidings.  The 
Major,  his  stately  head  bent  to  hear  her,  was 
nevertheless  looking  at  the  vanishing  figures 
of  the  two  men. 

Bronston  smiled  gently  to  himself  as  he  and 
Keller  crossed  the  threshold  and  headed  for 
the  dining  saloon.  He  didn't  go  near  Miss 
Cartwright  or  Major  Slocum  again  that  day, 
but  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  he,  watch 
ing  from  a  distance,  saw  her  in  earnest  conver 
sation  with  two  of  her  friends  from  Evanston — 
and  both  of  these  two  were  women.  Immedi 
ately  Bronston  went  below  and  stayed  there. 
He  didn't  even  get  up  for  dinner.  The  excuse 
he  gave  Keller,  when  Keller  came  in  at  dinner 
time,  was  that  he  wanted  to  go  over  some 
papers  connected  with  his  case.  The  small 
desk  at  which  he  sat  was  littered  with  papers 
and  he  was  steadily  making  notes  upon  a  scratch 
pad.  He  asked  Keller  to  ask  their  dining- 
room  steward  to  bring  him  a  light  meal  upon  a 
tray. 

At  this  point  we  digress,  in  order  to  drag  in 
the  fact  that  this  ship,  the  Mesopotamia,  was 
one  of  the  largest  ships  afloat  at  this  time. 
The  following  year  there  would  be  bigger  ones 
in  commission,  but  for  the  moment  she  ranked 
among  the  largest.  She  was  over  eight  hun 
dred  feet  long  and  of  a  beam  measurement  and 
a  hull  depth  to  correspond;  but  even  upon  a 
craft  of  such  amplified  proportions  as  this  was 
[438] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


news  travels  with  amazing  rapidity,  especially 
if  it  be  news  calculated  to  arouse  and  to  excite. 
Such  a  ship  might  be  likened  to  a  small,  com 
pact  town  set  afloat,  with  all  the  social  rami 
fications  of  a  small  town  and  with  all  of  a  small 
town's  curiosity  regarding  the  private  affairs 
of  the  neighbours.  Ashore  gossip  flies  swiftly 
enough,  goodness  only  knows;  at  sea  it  flits 
from  point  to  point,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the 
swallow.  What  one  knows  every  one  else 
knows,  and  knows  it  very  soon  too. 

The  digression  is  concluded.  Let  us  return 
to  the  main  thread  of  our  narrative.  Let  us  go 
back  to  the  joint  occupants  of  D-forty. 

It  was  nine-twenty  that  same  evening  when 
Keller  broke  in  upon  his  companion,  who  sat 
at  the  little  desk,  still  busied  with  his  writing. 
Keller  seemed  flustered,  not  to  say  indignant. 
He  slammed  the  door  behind  him  viciously. 

"Somebody's  on,"  he  stated,  speaking  with 
disconsolate  conviction.  "I  know  I  haven't 
said  anything,  and  it  don't  stand  to  reason 
that  you'd  be  talking;  but  they're  on." 

"On  what?"  inquired  Bronston  calmly. 

"On  to  us — that's  what!  It's  leaked  out 
who  we  are." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  it — I  know. 
I've  got  the  proofs.  We  had  our  little  game 
all  fixed  up  for  to-night — me  and  the  same 
three  fellows  I've  been  playing  with  right  along; 
but  when  I  looked  them  up  in  the  smoking 
[439] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


room  after  dinner  they  all  three  excused  them 
selves — said  they  didn't  feel  like  playing. 
Well,  that  was  all  right,  but  a  little  later  I  saw 
Latham  and  Levy  joining  in  a  game  with  two 
other  men,  both  strangers  to  me.  So  I  tried 
to  get  into  another  game  that  was  just  starting 
up,  and  the  fellows  there  horned  me  out.  I 
could  tell  they  didn't  want  to  be  playing  with 
me.  And  going  through  the  lounge  I  tumbled, 
all  of  a  sudden,  to  the  fact  that  all  the  people 
there,  men  and  women  both,  were  looking  hard 
at  me  and  nodding  to  one  another — get  what 
I  mean?  Maybe  they  didn't  think  I  saw  them 
—I  didn't  let  on,  of  course — but  I  did  see  'em. 
I  tell  you  they're  on.  Say,  what  do  you  know 
about  a  lot  of  stuck-up  people  passing  up  a 
man  cold,  just  because  they've  found  out  some 
way  that  he's  a  private  detective?" 

Overcome  by  his  feelings  he  snorted  in  dis 
gust.  Then  added,  as  an  afterthought:  "Well, 
what's  the  next  move?  What  do  you  think 
we'd  better  do  now?" 

Bronston  considered  a  moment  before  an 
swering. 

"If  your  suspicions  are  correct  I  take  it 
the  best  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  stay  away 
from  the  other  passengers  as  much  as  we  pos 
sibly  can  during  the  rest  of  this  trip.  At  least 
that's  what  I  figure  on  doing — with  your  con 
sent." 

"How  about  that  Miss  What's-her-name, 
the  girl  who  was  with  you  this  morning?" 
[440] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


asked  Keller.  "How  are  you  going  to  cut  her 
out?" 

"That's  simple  enough — merely  by  not  going 
near  her,  that's  all,"  said  Bronston.  "Admit 
ting  that  you  are  right  and  that  we  have  been 
recognised,  the  young  woman  probably  wouldn't 
care  to  be  seen  in  my  company  anyhow.  As 
things  seem  to  stand  now  it  might  be  embar 
rassing  for  her." 

"I  guess  you've  got  the  right  dope,"  said 
Keller.  "If  anybody  objects  to  my  company 
they  know  what  they  can  do.  What  do  you 
figure  on  doing — sticking  here  in  the  room?" 

"Remaining  in  a  stateroom  for  a  day  or  so 
won't  be  much  of  a  privation  to  a  man  who 
faces  the  prospect  of  being  locked  up  in  an 
English  jail  indefinitely,"  said  Bronston.  "It'll 
merely  be  a  sort  of  preliminary  training.  Be 
sides,  we  ought  to  reach  shore  to-morrow  night 
or  the  next  morning.  I  shall  certainly  stay 
where  I  am." 

"Me  too,  I  guess,"  said  Keller  dolorously. 
"I  sure  was  enjoying  that  little  game,  though." 

After  all,  as  it  turned  out,  Keller  wouldn't 
have  cared  to  leave  his  quarters  anyhow  on 
the  next  day.  For  overnight  the  sea,  so  placid 
and  benignant  until  now,  developed  a  passing 
fit  of  temperament.  In  the  morning  the  sea 
wasn't  exactly  what  you  would  call  rough,  but 
on  the  other  hand  it  wasn't  exactly  what  you 
would  call  absolutely  smooth;  and  Keller,  being 
a  green  traveller,  awoke  with  a  headache  and  a 
[441  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


feeling  of  squeamishness  in  his  stomach,  and 
found  it  no  privation  to  remain  upon  the  flat 
of  his  back.  Except  for  a  trip  to  the  bathroom 
Bronston  did  not  venture  out  of  the  room  either. 
He  read  and  wrote  and  smoked  and  had  his 
meals  brought  to  him.  Keller  couldn't  touch 
food. 

So  the  situation  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  when  there  came  a  gentle  knock  at 
the  door.  Keller  was  dozing  then,  but  roused 
himself  as  Bronston  called  out  to  know  what 
was  wanted.  The  voice  which  answered 
through  the  panels  was  the  voice  of  their  bed 
room  steward,  Lawrence. 

"I've  a  wireless,  sir,"  he  said;  "just  received 
from  the  coast.  It's  addressed  to  'Sharkey 
Agency's  Operative,  aboard  Steamship  Meso 
potamia,9  and  the  wireless  operator  brought  it  to 
the  purser,  sir,  and  the  purser  told  me  to  bring 
it  to  this  stateroom.  Was  that  right,  sir?" 

Keller  sat  up  with  a  groan.  His  head  was 
swimming. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  said  Bronston;  "I'll 
get  it  for  you";  and  before  Keller  could  swing 
his  feet  to  the  floor  Bronston  had  unbolted  the 
door  and  had  taken  the  message  from  Lawrence's 
hand.  The  steward,  standing  outside,  had 
time  only  to  murmur  his  inevitable  "Thank  you, 
sir,"  and  catch  one  peep  at  the  interior  of  the 
stateroom  before  the  door  was  closed  in  his 
face.  Bronston  turned  and  handed  the  sealed 

envelope  to  Keller. 

[442] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


"What  did  I  tell  you  last  night  about  'em 
all  being  on?"  said  Keller.  "A  message  comes 
with  no  name  on  it,  and  yet  they  know  right 
where  to  send  it.  And,  say,  did  you  get  a 
flash  at  the  look  on  that  steward's  face?  Some 
body's  been  telling  that  guy  something  too." 

He  opened  the  brown  envelope  and  glanced 
at  the  small  sheet  that  it  contained.  "The 
London  officer  will  meet  us  at  Liverpool,"  he 
said,  as  he  crumpled  the  paper  and  tossed  it 
aside.  "We  land  at  the  other  place  first, 
don't  we — Fishhawk,  or  whatever  its  name  is?" 

"Fishguard,"  Bronston  told  him.  "Or  rath 
er,  we  stop  off  Fishguard,  and  tenders  come  out 
to  meet  us  and  to  take  off  mail  and  passengers. 
Then  the  ship  goes  on  to  Liverpool." 

"Good  enough,"  said  Keller.  "You  and  me 
will  stay  right  here  in  this  stateroom  until  we 
get  to  Liverpool;  that'll  be  some  time  to 
morrow,  won't  it?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon,  probably,"  said  Brons 
ton.  He  went  back  to  his  writing,  whistling  a 
little  tune  to  himself. 

The  precaution  of  the  overcareful  Keller 
proved  unnecessary,  because  in  the  morning 
word  was  brought  by  the  bathroom  steward 
that  a  notice  had  just  been  posted  in  the  gang 
way  opposite  the  purser's  desk  announcing  that 
because  of  the  roughness  of  the  channel  the 
liner  would  proceed  straight  to  Liverpool  with 
out  stopping  off  Fishguard  at  all.  Neverthe- 
less,  the  detective  kept  the  stateroom  door 
[443  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


locked.  With  land  in  sight  he  was  taking  no 
chances  at  all. 

Since  their  stateroom  was  on  the  port  side 
and  the  hills  of  Wales  stood  up  out  of  the  sea 
upon  the  other  side,  they  saw  nothing  of  Fish- 
guard  as  the  Mesopotamia  steamed  on  up  the 
choppy  channel.  Mainly  they  both  were  si 
lent;  each  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  and 
speculations.  Hampered  in  their  movements 
by  the  narrow  confines  of  their  quarters  they 
packed  their  large  bags  and  their  small  ones, 
packing  them  with  care  and  circumspection, 
the  better  to  kill  the  time  that  hung  upon  their 
hands.  Finally  Bronston,  becoming  dissatis 
fied  with  his  own  bestowal  of  his  belongings, 
called  in  the  handy  Lawrence  to  do  the  job 
all  over  again  for  him. 

As  the  shifting  view  through  their  porthole 
presently  told  them,  they  left  the  broad  channel 
for  the  twistywise  river.  The  lightships  which 
dot  the  Mersey  above  its  mouth,  like  street- 
lamps  along  a  street,  were  sliding  by  when  Law 
rence  knocked  upon  the  door  to  ask  if  the  lug 
gage  was  ready  for  shore.  He  was  told  to  re 
turn  in  a  few  minutes;  but  instead  of  going 
away  he  waited  outside  in  the  little  corridor. 

"Well,"  said  Keller,  "I  guess  we'd  better  be 
getting  up  on  deck,  hadn't  we?"  He  glanced 
sidewise  at  the  shiny  steel  cuffs,  which  he  had 
fished  out  from  an  ulster  pocket  and  which  lay 
upon  the  rumpled  covers  of  his  bed.  Alongside 
them  was  the  key  of  the  door. 

[444  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


"I  suppose  so,"  said  Bronston  indifferently; 
"I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute."  With  his  back 
half  turned  to  Keller  he  was  adjusting  the 
seemingly  refractory  buckle  of  a  strap  which 
belonged  about  one  of  the  valises.  He  had 
found  it  necessary  to  remove  the  strap  from 
the  bag. 

"Hello,  what's  this?"  he  said  suddenly. 
The  surprise  in  his  tone  made  Keller  look. 
Bronston  had  leaned  across  the  foot  of  his  bed 
and  from  a  wall  pocket  low  down  against  the 
wainscoting  had  extracted  something. 

"Why,  it's  a  razor,"  he  said,  holding  it  up; 
"and  what's  more  it  looks  like  your  razor — 
the  one  you  thought  you'd  lost." 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Keller,  taking  it 
from  him.  "I  wonder  how  in  thunder  it  got 
itself  hid  there?  I'll  stick  it  in  my  pocket." 

"Better  not,"  advised  Bronston.  " If  I'm  not 
mistaken  it  is  against  the  English  law  to  carry 
a  razor  upon  the  person.  A  locked  valise  would 
be  a  better  place  for  it,  I  should  say." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  agreed  Keller.  "In 
a  strange  country  it's  just  as  well  to  be  careful." 

He  turned  and  stooped  down,  fumbling  with 
the  hasps  upon  his  small  handbag.  As  he  did, 
something  supple  and  quick  descended  in  a 
loop  over  his  head  and  shoulders.  In  an  in 
stantaneous  flash  of  alarm  he  sensed  that  it 
was  the  same  broad  strap  which  he  had  seen 
a  moment  before  in  the  hands  of  the  other  man. 
As  he  straightened  with  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
[  445  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


prise,  the  strap  was  violently  tightened  from 
behind,  the  tough  leather  squeaking  under  the 
strain  as  the  tongue  of  the  buckle  slipped 
through  a  handy  hole;  and  there  he  was, 
trussed  fast  about  the  middle,  with  his  arms 
bound  down  against  his  sides  just  at  the  elbows, 
so  that  his  lower  arms  flapped  in  the  futile 
fashion  of  a  penguin's  wings.  He  cried  out 
then,  cursing  and  wriggling  and  straining.  But 
a  man  who  would  have  been  his  equal  in  bodily 
vigour  even  though  his  limbs  were  unhampered 
was  upon  him  from  the  rear,  pitching  him  for 
ward  on  his  bed,  face  downward,  wrestling 
him  over  on  his  side,  muffling  his  face  in  a 
twist  of  bed  clothing,  then  forcing  his  wrists 
together  and  holding  them  so  while  there  was 
a  jingle  of  steel  chain  and  a  snapping  together 
of  steel  jaws.  Half  suffocated  under  the  weight 
of  his  antagonist,  with  his  mouth  full  of  blanket 
and  his  eyes  blinded,  overpowered,  tricked,  all 
but  helpless,  lashing  out  with  his  feet  in  a  vain 
protest  against  this  mishandling,  Keller  now 
was  dimly  aware  of  a  wallet  being  hurriedly 
removed  from  his  breast-pocket  and  of  some 
thing  else  of  equal  bulk  being  substituted  for 
it.  Then  he  was  yanked  upon  his  feet,  a  cap 
was  jammed  upon  his  head,  the  leather  noose 
about  his  body  was  cast  off,  and  he  stood  un 
steadily — a  composite  picture  of  dishevelment, 
dismay,  chagrin  and  rage — wearing  upon  his 
two  clamped  hands  the  same  gyves  which  his 
conqueror  had  worn  when  they  boarded  the  ship. 
[446] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 

"You'll  pay  for  this — I'll  make  you  pay  for 
this ! "  he  sputtered.  "I'll  show  you  up !  Damn 
you,  take  these  things  off  of  me!"  and  he 
tugged  impotently  at  his  bonds  until  his  wrist- 
bones  threatened  to  dislocate  themselves.  "You 
ain't  got  a  chance  to  get  away  with  this — not 
a  chance,"  he  cried.  "I'll  raise  this  whole  ship! 
I'll- 

"Rest  perfectly  easy,"  said  Bronston  calmly, 
soothingly  almost,  as  he  flung  the  strap  aside 
and  stepped  back.  "The  ship  has  already 
been  raised,  or  a  part  of  it.  If  you  weren't  so 
excited  you  would  know  that  our  friend  Law 
rence  has  been  trying  to  get  in  the  door  for  the 
last  half  minute  or  so.  I  think  he  must  have 
heard  you  kicking.  Let  us  admit  him." 

He  had  the  key  in  his  hands — in  the  stress 
and  fever  of  the  encounter  he  had  even  remem 
bered,  this  thoughtful  man,  to  secure  the  key. 
And  now,  with  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  cap 
tive,  who  remained  stupefied  at  this  inexplicable 
manoeuvre,  he  was  stepping  backward  and  un 
fastening  the  door,  and  swinging  it  open  for  the 
admission  of  the  astounded  servant. 

"Lawrence,"  snapped  Bronston  in  the  voice 
of  authority  and  command,  "I  want  you.  My 
man  here  tried  to  give  me  the  slip  and  I  had 
to  use  a  little  violence  to  secure  him.  Bring 
these  bags  and  come  along  with  us  to  the  deck. 
I  shall  possibly  need  your  help  in  making  the 
explanations  which  may  be  necessary.  Under- 

stand,  don't  you?" 

[447] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


Reaching  backward,  he  slipped  a  shining 
gold  coin  into  Lawrence's  palm;  he  slid  into  a 
grey  ulster;  he  advanced  a  step  and  fastened 
a  firm  hand  upon  the  crook  of  Keller's  fettered 
right  arm.  Involuntarily  the  captive  sought  to 
pull  away. 

"I  keep  telling  you  you  ain't  got  a  chance," 
he  blurted.  "I'll  go  to  the  captain " 

"No,  my  noisy  friend,  you  won't  go  to  the 
captain,"  Bronston  broke  in  on  his  tirade, 
"but  you'll  be  taken  to  him."  With  a  forward 
swing  he  thrust  Keller  across  the  threshold  and 
they  bumped  together  in  the  narrow  cross  hall. 
"Come  along  now,  Lawrence,  and  look  sharp," 
he  bade  the  pop-eyed  steward  over  his  shoulder. 

We  may  briefly  sketch  the  details  of  the  trip 
through  the  passageway,  and  up  the  steps  from 
D-deck  to  C-deck  and  from  .C-deck  to  B,  for 
really  it  occupied  less  time  than  would  be  re 
quired  for  a  proper  description  of  it.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  it  was  marked  by  many  protestations 
and  by  frequent  oaths  and  by  one  or  two  crisp 
commands  and  once  by  a  small  suggestion  of  a 
struggle.  These  sounds  heralded  the  progress 
of  the  trio  as  they  moved  bumpingly  along,  so 
that  the  first  officer,  catching  untoward  noises 
which  rose  above  the  chatter  of  the  passengers 
who  surrounded  him,  garbed  and  ready  for  the 
shore,  stepped  back  from  the  deck  into  the 
cabin  foyer,  followed  by  a  few  first-cabin  folk 
who,  like  him,  had  heard  the  clamour  and  had 
gathered  that  something  unusual  must  be  afoot. 
[448] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


The  first  officer  barred  the  way  of  the  proces 
sion.  He  was  a  competent  and  self-possessed 
young  man,  else  he  would  not  have  been  the 
first  officer.  At  sight  of  his  brass  buttons  and 
gold-braided  sleeves  Keller,  still  striving  to  cast 
off  Bronston's  hold,  emitted  a  cry  of  relief. 

"Captain!  Captain!"  he  yelled;  "listen  to 
me.  Listen  to  me  a  minute,  please." 

"The  captain  is  on  the  bridge  until  the  ship 
has  docked,"  answered  the  uniformed  one.  "I 
am  the  first  officer.  What  is  the  trouble?" 

"There  is  no  trouble — now."  It  was  Brons- 
ton  speaking;  speaking  authoritatively  and 
without  outward  signs  of  excitement.  "Would 
you  care  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say,  Mr. 
Officer?" 

"I  would." 

"But,  see  here,  I'm  the  one  that's  got  a  right 
to  do  the  talking,"  burst  in  a  frenzied  gurgle 
from  the  sorely  beset  Keller.  "You  listen  to 
me.  This  is  an  outrage!" 

"One  at  a  time,"  quoth  the  first  officer  in 
the  voice  of  one  accustomed  to  having  his  or 
ders  obeyed.  "Proceed,"  he  bade  Bronston. 

"You  may  have  heard,"  stated  Bronston, 
"that  we  are  a  detective  and  a  prisoner.  I  be 
lieve  there  has  been  talk  to  that  effect  on  board 
here  for  the  past  day  or  two." 

The  first  officer — his  name  was  Watts — nod 
ded  to  indicate  that  such  rumours  had  come  to 
his  ears. 

"Very  well,  then,"  went  on  Bronston;  "my 
[449] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


man  here  will  probably  claim  he  is  being  kid 
napped.  That  is  his  last  hope."  He  smiled 
at  this.  "He  tried  to  get  away  from  me  a  bit 
ago.  We  had  a  tussle.  The  steward  here 
heard  us  struggling.  I  overpowered  him  and 
ironed  him.  Now,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
himself,  I  apprehend  that  he  will  claim  that  he 
is  really  the  detective  and  that  I  am  really  the 
prisoner.  Will  you  kindly  look  at  us  both  and 
tell  me,  in  your  opinion,  which  is  which?" 

Dispassionately,  judicially,  First  Officer 
Watts  considered  the  pair  facing  him,  while 
curious  spectators  crowded  together  in  a  semi 
circle  behind  him  and  a  thickening  stream  of 
other  first-cabin  passengers  poured  in  from  off 
the  deck,  jostling  up  closely  to  feast  their  gaping 
eyes  upon  so  sensational  an  episode.  It  took 
the  young  Englishman  only  a  moment  or  two 
to  make  up  his  mind;  a  quick  scrutiny  was  for 
him  amply  sufficient.  For  one  of  these  men 
stood  at  ease;  well  set  up,  confident,  not  notice 
ably  rumpled  as  to  attire  or  flustered  as  to  bear 
ing.  But  the  other:  His  coat  was  bunched  up 
on  his  back,  one  trouser  leg  was  pulled  half 
way  up  his  shin;  his  mussed  hair  was  in  his 
eyes;  his  cap  was  over  one  ear;  his  eyes  un 
doubtedly  had  a  most  wild  and  desperate  look; 
from  his  mouth  came  vain  words  and  ravings. 
Finally  there  were  those  handcuffs.  Handcuffs, 
considered  as  such,  may  not  signify  guilt,  yet 
somehow  they  typify  it.  So  far  as  First  Officer 
Watts  was  concerned  those  handcuffs  clinched 
[450  ] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


the  case.  To  his  understanding  they  were 
prima  facie  evidence,  exceedingly  plausible 
and  highly  convincing.  Promptly  he  deliv 
ered  his  opinion.  It  was  significant  that,  in 
so  doing,  he  addressed  Bronston  and  ignored 
Keller: 

"I'm  bound  to  say,  sir,  the  appearances  are 
in  favour  of  you.  But  there  should  be  other 
proof,  don't  you  think — papers  or  something?" 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Bronston.  He  drew  a 
red  leather  wallet  from  his  own  breast-pocket 
and  handed  it  over  to  Watts.  Then,  working 
deftly,  he  extracted  half  a  dozen  letters  and  a 
sheaf  of  manuscript  notes  from  an  inner  pocket 
of  Keller's  coat  and  tendered  them  for  exami 
nation;  which  crowning  indignity  rendered 
Keller  practically  inarticulate  with  madness. 
Watts  scanned  these  exhibits  briefly,  paying 
particular  attention  to  a  formal-looking  docu 
ment  which  he  drew  from  the  red  wallet. 

"These  things  seem  to  confirm  what  you 
say,"  was  his  comment.  He  continued,  how 
ever,  to  hold  the  written  and  printed  testimony 
in  his  hands.  He  glanced  at  the  impressive 
document  again.  "Hold  on;  this  description  of 
the  man  who  is  wanted  says  he  has  a  mous 
tache?" 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  offer  you  other  proof, 
plenty  of  it,"  Bronston  promised,  cutting  in  on 
Keller,  who  grew  more  incoherently  vocal  with 
each  moment.  "Would  you  be  so  good  as  to 

send  for  the  ship's  barber?" 

[  451  ] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


"Bring  the  barber!"  ordered  Watts  of  a  wide- 
eyed  cabin  boy. 

"This  steward  has  served  us  since  we  came 
aboard,"  went  on  Bronston,  indicating  Law 
rence.  "Now,  my  man,  I  want  you  to  tell 
the  truth.  Which  of  us  two  seemed  to  be  in 
charge  on  the  night  you  first  saw  us — the  night 
we  came  aboard — this  man  or  I?" 

"You,  sir,"  answered  Lawrence.  "I  recall 
quite  distinctly  that  'twas  you  spoke  to  me 
about  the  'eavy  luggage." 

"Who  took  from  you  the  wireless  message 
which  you  brought  yesterday  to  our  stateroom, 
addressed  to  the  representative  of  the  Sharkey 
Detective  Agency?" 

"You,  sir." 

"Who  handed  you  your  tip  a  few  minutes 
ago  for  serving  us  during  the  voyage?" 

"You  did,  thank  you,  sir." 

A  figure  of  dignity  pushed  forward  through 
the  ring  of  excited  spectators  and  a  sonorous, 
compelling  voice  was  raised  impressively.  Major 
Slocum  had  been  late  in  arriving  upon  the 
scene,  but  what  he  now  said  earned  for  him 
instant  attention. 

"Mr.  Officer,"  announced  the  Major  with  a 
gesture  which  comprehended  the  central  pair 
of  figures,  "you  may  accept  it  from  me  as  an 
absolute  and  indisputable  fact  that  this  gentle 
man,  who  calls  himself  Brown,  is  a  bona-fide 
detective.  I  gleaned  as  much  from  my  conver- 
sation  with  him  upon  the  occasion  of  our  first 
[452] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


meeting.  He  evinced  a  wide  knowledge  of 
police  matters.  Of  the  other  person  I  know 
nothing,  except  that,  since  Brown  is  the  detec 
tive,  he  must  perforce  be  the  prisoner."  He 
cleared  his  throat  before  going  on: 

"Moreover,  deeply  though  I  regret  to  bring 
a  lady,  and  especially  a  young  lady,  into  a  con 
troversy  involving  a  person  who  is  charged 
with  crime" — here  he  blighted  the  hapless 
Keller  with  a  glare — "deeply  as  I  regret  it,  I 
may  say  that  my  niece  is  in  position  to  supply 
further  evidence." 

The  crowd  parted  to  admit  Miss  Lillian 
Cartwright,  then  closed  in  behind  her.  Excite 
ment  flushed  the  young  lady's  cheeks  becom 
ingly.  The  first  officer  bowed  to  her: 

"Pardon  me,  miss,  but  would  you  mind  tell 
ing  us  what  you  know?" 

"Why,  I've  known  for  two  days — no,  three 
days,  I  think — who  they  were,"  stated  Miss 
Cartwright.  "Mr.  Brown — the  detective,  you 
know — loaned  me  his  ulster  the  other  morning; 
and  when  I  put  it  on  I  felt  something — some 
thing  heavy  that  jingled  in  the  pocket.  Mr. 
Brown  didn't  seem  to  want  me  to  take  it  out 
or  speak  about  it.  But  at  the  very  first  chance 
I  peeped  in  the  pocket,  and  it  was  a  pair  of 
handcuffs.  I'd  never  seen  any  handcuffs  before 
— closely,  I  mean — so  I  peeped  at  them  several 
times.  They  are  the  same  handcuffs  that  are 
on  that  man  now." 

"That  was  my   overcoat  he  loaned   you!" 

[  453  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


yelled  Keller,  waving  his  coupled  hands  up  and 
down  in  his  desperate  yearning  to  be  heard  in 
his  own  defence.  "Those  handcuffs  were  in 
my  overcoat  pocket,  I  tell  you,  not  in  his." 

"Oh,  no,"  contradicted  Miss  Cartwright, 
most  positively.  "Yours  is  a  brown  ulster. 
I've  seen  you  wearing  it  evenings  on  the  deck. 
And  this  was  a  dark-grey  ulster,  the  same  one 
that  Mr.  Brown  is  wearing  this  very  minute. 

"And  I  remember,  too,  that  on  that  very 
same  morning  you  came  up  and  asked  Mr. 
Brown  to  take  you  to  lunch,  or  rather  you 
asked  him  to  go  to  lunch  so  that  you  could  go, 
too.  You  spoke  to  him  twice  about  it — quite 
humbly,  I  thought." 

There  were  murmurs  of  applause  at  this. 
Another  voice,  unheard  until  now,  spoke  out, 
rising  above  the  confused  babbling.  It  was  the 
voice  of  a  sophisticated  New  Yorker  addressing 
an  equally  sophisticated  friend: 

"There's  nothing  to  it,  Herman!  Look  at 
those  feet  on  Brown.  Nobody  but  a  bull  would 
be  wearing  shoes  like  that.  And  pipe  the  plaid 
lid — a  regulation  plain-clothes  man's  get-up, 
the  whole  thing  is." 

"But  those  are  my  shoes  he's  wearing," 
wailed  Keller,  feeling  the  trap  closing  in  upon 
him  from  every  side.  "Those  are  my  shoes — 
I  loaned  'em  to  him." 

"Lawrence,"  said  Bronston,  "you've  been 
giving  our  shoes  to  Boots  and  getting  them  back 

from  him,  haven't  you?" 

[454] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


"Yes,  sir." 

"Are  these  shoes  which  I  have  on  now  the 
same  shoes  I've  been  wearing  right,  along?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  the  same  boots!" 

"When  you  helped  me  pack  my  luggage  to 
day,  did  you  notice  any  other  shoes?" 

"No,  sir." 

"I  wasn't  in  my  stocking  feet  when  I  came 
aboard,  was  I?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  sir."  This  with  a  respectful 
smile. 

"Then  these  must  be  the  only  shoes  I  have 
or  have  had,  mustn't  they?" 

Before  Lawrence  could  make  answer  to  this 
question  the  ship's  barber  appeared  at  the  first 
officer's  elbow,  touching  his  cap. 

"You  wanted  me,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"I  wanted  you,"  put  in  Bronston.  "Look  at 
me  closely,  please.  How  long  would  you  say 
that  it  has  been  since  I  wore  a  moustache?" 

With  the  air  of  a  scientist  examining  a  rare 
and  interesting  specimen,  the  barber  considered 
the  speaker's  upper  lip. 

"Not  for  some  months,  sir,  I  should  say,"  he 
announced  with  professional  gravity,  while  all 
the  audience  craned  their  necks  to  hear  his 
words. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Bronston,  yanking  Keller 
forward  into  the  full  light,  "would  you  please 
look  this  prisoner  over  and  tell  us  how  long,  in 
your  opinion,  it  has  been  since  he  wore  a  mous 
tache?^ 

[455  ] 


LOCAL      COLOR 


A  pause  ensued;  all  waited  for  the  decision. 

"I  should  say,  sir,"  stated  the  barber  at  the 
end  of  half  a  minute,  "that  Vs  been  wearing 
a  moustache  lately — I  should  say  that  'e  must 
'ave  took  it  off  quite  recently.  'Is  upper  lip 
is  still  tender — tenderer  than  the  rest  of  'is 
face." 

"But  I  took  it  off  since  we  sailed,"  blared 
Keller.  He  turned  furiously  on  Bronston. 
"Damn  you,  you  conned  me  into  taking  it  off !" 

"Why  should  I  do  that?"  parried  Bronston 
coolly;  his  manner  changed,  becoming  accusing. 
"Why  should  I  persuade  you  to  cut  off  the 
principal  distinguishing  mark  as  set  forth  in 
the  description  that  was  sent  to  our  people 
from  London,  the  thing  which  aided  me  in 
tracing  and  finding  you?" 

A  sputtered  bellow  was  the  answer  from 
Keller,  and  a  suggestion  of  applause  the  re 
sponse  from  the  crowd.  The  popular  verdict 
had  been  rendered.  Before  the  tribunal  of  the 
onlookers  the  prisoner  stood  convicted  of  being 
rightfully  and  properly  a  prisoner.  Even  in 
his  present  state  Keller  realised  this,  and 
filled  for  the  moment  with  a  sullen  resignation 
he  dropped  his  manacled  hands. 

"Remember,"  he  groaned,  "somebody'll  pay 
out  big  damages  if  you  let  this  man  off  this 
ship.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say  now.  He 
tricked  me  and  he'll  trick  you,  too,  if  he  can!" 

"Mr.  First  Officer,"  said  Bronston,  "hasn't 
this  farce  gone  far  enough?  Is  there  any  lin- 
[456] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


gering  doubt  in  your  mind  regarding  our  proper 
identities?" 

The  first  officer  shook  his  head.  **  I  am  satis 
fied,"  he  said  with  unqualified  conviction  in  his 
words;  "quite  satisfied.  Indeed,  sir,  I  was 
satisfied  from  the  beginning.  I  only  wished  to 
be  absolutely  sure." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Bronston.  "I 
am  expecting  a  man  from  Scotland  Yard  to 
meet  us  here  at  Liverpool.  Would  you  please 
bring  him  to  me  here?  This  man  is  dangerous, 
and  I  prefer  to  have  assistance  before  taking 
him  off  the  boat.  Kindly  explain  the  situation 
to  the  Scotland  Yard  man  as  he  comes  aboard, 
will  you,  please,  and  ask  him  to  hurry." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Watts,  moving 
back.  "Clear  the  way,  please,"  he  bade  those 
about  him.  "We  are  about  to  dock,  I  think." 

He  was  a  bit  late.  The  steamer  had  already 
swung  to,  broadside,  alongside  the  long  landing 
stage,  and  just  as  Mr.  Watts,  in  a  great  hurry, 
reached  the  rail,  the  gangway  went  out.  But 
before  the  first  eager  shoregoer  could  start 
down  it,  a  square-jawed,  stockily-built  man, 
with  short  side  whiskers,  came  briskly  up  it 
from  the  other  end.  He  spoke  ten  words  to 
the  first  officer,  and  the  first  officer,  escorting 
him,  bored  back  through  the  press  to  the  foyer, 
explaining  the  situation  in  crisp  sentences,  as 
he  made  a  path  for  the  newcomer  to  the  spot 
where  Bronston,  with  his  legs  braced,  was  jam- 
ming  the  blasphemous  and  struggling  Keller 
[457] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


into  an  angle  of  the  cabin  wall.  For  Keller 
had  once  more  grown  violent.  At  sight  of 
this  the  square- jawed  man  jumped  forward  to 
lend  a  hand. 

"Inspector  Drew,  from  Scotland  Yard,"  he 
said,  by  way  of  introduction  for  himself  as  he 
grabbed  for  one  of  Keller's  flailing  legs. 

"All  right,  inspector,"  answered  Bronston, 
between  hard-set  teeth.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
I'm  having  trouble  handling  our  man." 

"So  I  see,"  said  Drew,  "but  we'll  cure  that 
in  a  jiffy."  He  cured  it  by  the  expedient  of 
throwing  the  whole  weight  of  his  body  upon 
Keller.  Together  he  and  Bronston  pressed  the 
captive  flat  and  helpless  against  the  woodwork. 

"The  boat  train  is  waiting,"  panted  Drew  in 
Bronston's  ear.  "Shall  we  get  our  man 
aboard?" 

"I'm  not  going  on  any  train!"  snorted  Keller, 
his  voice  rising  to  an  agonised  shriek. 

"Oh,  yes,  but  you  are,  me  beauty!"  said  the 
inspector.  "Get  him  by  the  other  arm,"  he 
told  Bronston.  "I'll  take  care  of  him  on  this 
side." 

Propelled  by  an  irresistible  force,  held  fast 
by  strong  grips  upon  his  coat-collar  and  his 
elbows,  shoved  along,  while  his  feet  dragged 
and  scuffled  under  him  and  his  pinioned  hands 
waggled  the  air  impotently,  hurried  on  so  fast 
that  his  profane  sputterings  gurgled  and  died 
in  his  throat — thus  and  after  such  a  fashion 
did  the  hapless,  helpless  Keller  travel  across 
[458] 


SMOOTH      CROSSING 


the  deck  and  through  the  crowd,  which  parted 
before  him  and  closed  in  behind;  thus  did  he 
progress,  without  halt,  across  the  landing  dock, 
on  past  the  stand  of  the  customs  office  and 
out  at  the  other  side  of  the  dock,  where,  upon 
tracks  that  ran  along  the  quay,  a  train  stood 
with  steam  up.  Bodily  he  was  flung  in  at  an 
open  coach  door;  roughly  he  was  spun  about 
and  deposited  like  a  sack  of  oats  upon  the  seat 
of  a  compartment,  and  Inspector  Drew,  gasp 
ing  for  breath  but  triumphant,  shoved  a  knee 
into  his  heaving  chest  to  keep  him  there. 

"Whew,  that  was  a  job!"  puffed  Bronston, 
releasing  his  grasp  of  their  still  feebly  struggling 
charge.  "Inspector,  can  you  keep  him  where 
he  is  for  just  a  minute  or  two?  I'll  see  to  it 
that  the  baggage  is  brought  here." 

"I  can  keep  the  gentleman  quiet,"  said 
Drew,  mending  his  grip  and  shoving  down 
hard  upon  the  wriggling  human  cushion  be 
neath  him. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  let  him  get  away! 
Don't "  The  rest  was  but  muffled  gur 
glings  and  snortings,  made  meaningless  and 
wordless  by  a  sinewy,  tweed-clad  forearm, 
which  was  jammed  across  poor  Keller's  face 
with  crushing  and  extinguishing  violence. 

"Go  get  your  baggage,"  panted  Inspector 
Drew.  "He'll  stay  right  'ere  with  me,  no  fear." 
So  Bronston  stepped  down  out  of  the  com 
partment  and  slammed  the  door  fast  behind 
him. 

[459] 


LOCAL     COLOR 


As  the  passengers  of  the  Mesopotamia  come 
swarming  aboard  the  boat  train,  and  as  the 
boat  train  prepares  to  pull  out  for  London,  we 
may  as  well  leave  the  inspector  and  the  hand 
cuffed  detective  wrestling  there  together  in  the 
narrow  confines  of  that  English  railway  com 
partment. 

Because  that  was  where  Bronston  left  them. 


THE  END 


[460] 


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